


A Song of Ice and Fire

by greymissed



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-12-23 00:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11978076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greymissed/pseuds/greymissed
Summary: The story of how Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen meet and eventually fall in love. A detailed narrative tracking the TV series closely, with a few additional scenes.Chapter 8: After the battle beyond the Wall, Daenerys waits by Jon's bedside for him to awaken, and he finally does. (Season 7, Episode 6)





	1. Lord Snow and the Dragon Queen

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t published fanfiction in years, and this is my first foray into the Game of Thrones fandom – after seasons of thinking that Jon and Daenerys would be so good together and waiting with bated breath until they finally met, Season 7 has been a dream come true. I LOVED seeing the amazing onscreen chemistry between Kit Harington and Emilia Clarke play out in each episode.
> 
> It’s seldom I say this, but canon (at least the TV show) has got the relationship down perfectly – I do think that this is a ship that benefits from a slow burn, and I honestly don’t think the scriptwriters could have done any better. That’s why this fic is really aimed at fleshing out their thoughts and feelings as they happen in the show, with a few additional scenes thrown in for good measure. This is to be a multi-chaptered fic, with each chapter based on a few scenes. Hope this helps to tide you over till Season 8 comes out (in 2019 *sob*)!

She is pleased to see that the two men who step into the throne room look discomfited.

 

Everything has been arranged to enhance her show of power. Her absence from his arrival on the shore. The greeting by Missandei flanked with a hoard of armed Dothraki. The veiled threat inherent in the request to give up all weapons. The long walk up to the castle. The dragons circling overhead. It’s a stage, set to intimidate the King in the North.

 

She wants him to see just how little he is and how insignificant in comparison to her, the rightful queen. The throne seat at Dragonstone is still fairly new to her, but she is careful not to show it. She knows how daunting it appears to someone seeing it for the first time across the large, somber throne room.

 

She is shrouded in semi-darkness, allowing her to study the two men before they can study her, as Missandei rattles off a list of her titles and achievements.

 

She presumes the younger man is the so-called King in the North. He looks younger than she’d expected, not as imposing or fearsome or powerful as she had imagined from someone who has done all the things he’s reputed to have done. Indeed he looks like someone she might cow into submission. Daenerys deliberately refers to him as Lord Snow.

 

He does not call her out on it, but the older man – Ser Davos, she learns – hastens to correct her.

 

She leaps at the opportunity to make her position known, but she takes her time, drawing out the charade as a cat toys with a mouse that has nowhere to run. “Forgive me, Ser Davos, I never did receive a formal education. But I could have sworn I read the last king in the North was Torren Stark who bent the knee to my ancestor, Aegon Targaryen, in exchange for his life and the lives of the Northmen. Torren Stark swore fealty to House Targaryen in perpetuity. Or do I have my facts wrong?” she asks, knowing very well that she does not.

 

“I wasn’t there, your grace,” Ser Davos admits.

 

“No, of course not. But still an oath is an oath. And in perpetuity means... What does in perpetuity mean?”

 

“Forever,” Tyrion supplies.

 

“So I assume, my Lord,” she calls him Lord again, deliberately. “… you are here to bend the knee.”

 

“I am not.” Lord Snow says. His voice is clear, strong, decisive.

 

“Oh. Well, that is unfortunate. You’ve travelled all this way to break faith with House Targaryen?”

 

“Break faith? Your father burnt my grandfather alive. He burnt my uncle alive. He would have burnt the Seven Kingdoms—”

 

She will give it to him: he is bold. That he says this after refusing to bend the knee in her court, before her armed guards, shows his daring. But she cuts him off. “My father was an evil man. On behalf of House Targaryen, I ask your forgiveness for the crimes he committed against your family and I ask you not to judge a daughter by the sins of her father.” She can tell he is somewhat taken aback by this, but she pushes on. “Our two houses were allies for centuries, and those were the best centuries the Seven Kingdoms have ever known. Centuries of peace and prosperity, with a Targaryen sitting on the Iron Throne and a Stark serving as Warden of the North. I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honour the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Bend the knee, and I will name you Warden of the North. Together, we will save this country from those who would destroy it.” She thinks she has made a generous offer, a fair offer.

 

But he appears unmoved. He considers, looks around before speaking. “You’re right. You’re not guilty of your father’s crime, and I’m not beholden to my ancestor’s vows.”

 

Clever answer, turning her words against her. But not enough. “Then why are you here?”

 

He looks her in the eyes as he says, “Because I need your help and you need mine.”

 

He must be joking. She has tried playing nice, tried persuading him by dangling a carrot. Evidently, that does not work on him – she will need to resort to threats. “Did you see three dragons flying overhead when you arrived?”

 

If he is intimidated, he does not show it. “I did.”

 

“And did you see the Dothraki, all of whom have sworn to kill for me?”

 

“They’re hard to miss.”

 

“But still – I need your help?” she can feel the anger rising in her. What can the North give her that she cannot simply take?

 

Ser Davos speaks up. “Not to defeat Cersei. You could storm King’s Landing tomorrow and the city would fall. Hell, we almost took it and we didn’t even have dragons.”

 

“Almost,” Tyrion emphasizes.

 

“But you haven’t stormed King’s Landing,” Lord Snow says. “Why not? The only reason I can see is that you don’t want to kill thousands of innocent people. It’s the fastest way to win the war, but you won’t do it. Which means at the very least, you’re better than Cersei.”

 

So he has figured out her weakness – her unwillingness to kill thousands of innocent people to get to the Iron Throne. “Still, that doesn’t explain why I need your help.”

 

“Because right now, you and I and Cersei and everyone else, we’re children, playing at a game, screaming that the rules are unfair.”

 

She is angry now. Who is this man, who knows nothing about her, to call her a child and belittle her claim for the throne? If he were not interested in the game of thrones, what is he doing as King in the North? She turns to her Hand. “You told me you liked this man,” she says accusatorily, making it clear that she does not.

 

“I do.”

 

“In the time since he’s met me, he’s refused to call me queen, he’s refused to bow, and now he’s calling me a child.”

 

Tyrion tries to lighten the mood. “I believe he’s calling all of us children. Figure of speech.”

 

“Your grace, everyone you know will die before winter’s over if we don’t defeat the enemy to the North,” Lord Snow says.

 

Is that a threat? “As far as I can see, _you_ are the enemy to the North.”

 

“I am not your enemy,” he says. He seems earnest. She wants to believe him. But then he adds, “The dead are the enemy.”

 

“The dead?” Daenerys repeats, unimpressed. What is this man getting at? She can feel her patience wearing thinner with each passing moment. “Is that another figure of speech?”

 

“The Army of the Dead is on the march,” he persists.

 

“Army of the Dead?” Tyrion questions, looking equally disbelieving.

 

Lord Snow appeals to Tyrion now. “You don't know me well, my Lord, but do you think I’m a liar or a madman?”

 

“No, I don’t think you’re either of those things,” Tyrion concedes.

 

“The Army of the Dead is real. The White Walkers are real. The Night King is real. I’ve seen them. If they get past the Wall, and we’re squabbling amongst ourselves—“ he speaks forcefully, prompting the Dothraki to step forward threateningly “--we’re finished.”

 

She has no idea what he’s talking about, but his manner of speech is compelling. He may not be a master of words like Tyrion, but it appears heartfelt. Passionate. She can see why men follow him. But he is knocking at the wrong door. She will not be taken in by this Northerner.

 

“I was born at Dragonstone. Not that I can remember it.” She stands now, and starts walking down the steps towards Lord Snow, maintaining eye contact all the while. “We fled before Robert’s assassins could find us. Robert, who was your father’s best friend. I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib. Not that it matters now, of course.” And it doesn’t. She’s here in Westeros, finally. She’s had to claw her way through life to get here, and she does not intend to leave without getting what she came for – the Seven Kingdoms. “I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me. I don’t remember all their names.” She takes her time, drawing out the production.

 

“I have been sold like a brood mare. I have been chained and betrayed. Raped and defiled,” she tells Lord Snow, looking him in the eyes. To his credit, he does not break eye contact although he looks mightily uncomfortable. “Do you know what kept me going? Do you know what kept me standing through all those years of exile? Faith. Not in any gods. Not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn’t seen dragons in centuries until my children were born. The Dothraki haven’t crossed the sea. Any sea. They did for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. _And I will._ ”

 

The rest of the court seems moved, but Lord Snow meets her gaze unflinchingly. “You’ll be ruling over a graveyard if we don’t defeat the Night King.”

 

For the first time, she realizes that despite his humble manner, this is not a man who will be easily cowed. Nor, evidently, is he a man who will utter niceties to a queen whom he is at the mercy of.

 

“The war against my sister has already begun,” Tyrion points out. “You don’t expect us to halt hostilities and join you in fighting… whatever you saw beyond the Wall.” He gestures vaguely.

 

Ser Davos now speaks up. “You don’t believe him. I understand that. It sounds like nonsense. But if destiny has brought Daenerys Targaryen back to our shores, it has also made Jon Snow King in the North. You were the first to bring Dothraki to Westeros. He was the first to make allies of wildlings and Northmen. He was named Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, he was named King in the North.” Lord Snow looks slightly embarrassed as Ser Davos continues. “Not because of his birthright. He has no birthright. He’s a damn bastard. All those hard sons of bitches chose him as their leader because they believe in him.” He grows more impassioned as he continues speaking. “All those things you don’t believe in, he faced those things, he fought those things for the good of his people, he risked his life for his people, he took a knife in the heart for his people, he gave his own l—”

 

He stops abruptly as Lord Snow shoots him a look. Ser Davos clears his throat and continues, “If we don’t put aside our enmities and band together we will die. And then it doesn’t matter whose skeleton sits on the Iron Throne.”

 

“If it doesn’t matter, you might as well kneel,” Tyrion argues. “Swear your allegiance to Queen Daenerys, help her to defeat my sister, and together our armies will protect the North.”

 

“There’s no time for that.” From his raised voice, Daenerys can tell that Lord Snow is losing patience. “There’s no time for any of this. While we stand here debating—”

 

“It takes no time to bend the knee,” Tyrion points out sensibly. “Pledge your sword to her cause--”

 

“And why would I do that?” Lord Snow snaps. It appears he has reached his breaking point. “I mean no offence, your grace,” he says, turning to her now, his brows furrowed, “but I don’t know you. As far as I know, your claim to the throne rests entirely on your father’s name, and my own father fought to overthrow the Mad King. The Lords of the North placed their trust in me to lead them, and I will continue to do so as well as I can.” His gaze is unwavering.

 

Daenerys can feel her heart pounding under her thick clothing. She confesses herself somewhat moved by what he is saying, by the look of utter sincerity in his eyes, by the fact that he is bold enough to say these things to her – but what he is saying is entirely unwelcome in her court. Fine. He is not a man she can bend to her will; she will need to prove to him what she has proven to Meereen, to Essos, to the Dothraki – that she is a good and worthy ruler. But she meets his gaze evenly as she replies, “That’s fair. It’s also fair to point out that I am the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. By declaring yourself King of the Northernmost kingdom, you are in open rebellion.”

 

As she pauses to let the import of her words sink in, Varys interrupts them and requests an urgent audience. There is no end to these things, it seems.

 

She turns graciously to the two Northerners as if they have not just been engaged in a war of words for the past ten minutes. “You must forgive my manners. You will both be tired after your long journey. We’ll have baths drawn for you and supper sent to your rooms.”

 

The significance of supper being sent to their rooms is not lost on Lord Snow. She is ascending the steps to her throne when she hears him ask, “Am I your prisoner?”

 

It seems he is not one for playing games, so she decides to tell him the truth. “Not yet.”

 

~

 

The day has not gone quite as hoped.

 

First, the dragon queen was a surprise.

 

All he’d heard of her was that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, that she had three dragons and that she’d conquered much of the Eastern lands. He’d expected someone like Cersei, tall and regal, sharp featured. Someone who exuded raw power, a warrior queen. He had found instead this tiny queen with her silver hair dressed in braids; large, round doe-like eyes – violet, he saw when she’d come up close – and full lips. She looked nearly like a child or a doll. But she was clearly neither.

 

For all her delicate beauty, Jon understands from their interactions that day that she is not one to underestimate. She is sharp as a whip, and well spoken to boot. She has the bearing of a queen, and she knows how to use it. She is hungry for the throne, and has the means to get it. He’d learned from Tyrion during their walk up that she has already made allies of Yara Greyjoy, Dorne and Highgarden.

 

The second surprise was her insistence that he bend the knee. He supposes he should have expected it, though Tyrion’s letter had not explicitly stated it. The dragon queen had all but jumped when Ser Davos clarified that he was a King. He still feels strange thinking of himself as King. He is just Jon Snow, a bastard. He’d never wished for any of this. He’d never wanted any of this. And yet somehow, these responsibilities and power have been thrust upon him yet again. The North looks to him to lead them, to guide them through the Long Night. How can he say no?

 

The fact that he never wanted to be King makes her insistence that he bend the knee all the more frustrating. His hold as King in the North is tenuous enough. The Northern lords will surely revolt if he bends the knee to this foreign queen. He’s no stranger to making difficult and unpopular decisions. Indeed he does not shy away from them, as evidenced by the stab wounds on his chest. But they must be warranted. Bending the knee is entirely unwarranted in the circumstances. He will not bend the knee to this queen he has just met, who has grown up in foreign lands and knows nothing of Westeros and its people, who seems nearly as hungry for power as the rest of them, whatever they may say about what she has done for her people.

 

Though he is not usually one to give up easily, he finds despair setting in rapidly. Their best hope for defeating the Night King and his Army of the Dead – the Targaryen queen, with her three fully grown dragons and her Dothraki and Unsullied armies – does not believe him. Myths and legends, she’d as good as called them.

 

He has his doubts about convincing her otherwise. She does not even appear to care, really, whether or not there is truth to his words. All she seems to care about is that he bend the knee, so that she can add the North to her list of conquests.

 

And Tyrion had backed her up. Tyrion, on the faith of whom Jon had agreed to come to Dragonstone. Tyrion, who had agreed that Jon was neither a liar nor a madman, but who disbelieves him nonetheless.

 

He has travelled all this way for nothing.

 

Worse than nothing.

 

He is on an island, cut off from his people and armies and ship, basically imprisoned by the Mad King’s daughter with said three fully grown dragons and Dothraki and Unsullied armies. They would be invaluable in the inevitable fight against the Army of the Dead. But evidently the dragon queen does not believe him, does not even care to find out more.

 

Ser Davos remains hopeful. He says they will try again the next day. He points out they are not prisoners yet. But Jon is not so sure.

 

The one positive thing he can say about the day is he has seen for his own eyes the dragons. His hope for them to be used against the Army of the Dead aside, it is gratifying to have seen them in his lifetime when for many others they have remained simply a part of history. He has seen many things others haven’t – white walkers, giants, death itself – but the dragons still amaze him. They are magnificent, fearsome creatures, a sight to behold. He can almost feel again the rush of blood in his veins, like a flame alight, and hear the rush of wind in his ears as one of them had swooped down towards him on the walk up to Dragonstone. It is beyond his comprehension how the queen is supposed to have given birth to them.

 

These thoughts swirling about in his head, he drifts off into troubled sleep, dragons shrieking overhead.


	2. Foreign invader and the Northern Fool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys allows Jon to mine dragonglass.

It’s been three days of silence from the dragon queen. It comes to his knowledge that her allies were captured by Euron Greyjoy while sailing across the Narrow Sea. A big blip in her plans, to be sure. He has seen only flashes of her, walking around the castle with her advisors and guards. She has no time to grant them an audience.

 

He spends his days wandering around the grounds like a lost child. Dragonstone is on an island, surrounded by sea and sky stretching endlessly. It is warmer here than in the North. It would be a welcome change from the blistering cold under different circumstances, but he cannot appreciate it now. Winter is coming, and he is stuck here in the South, away from his home. He is a prisoner here.

 

For all that, when Tyrion finds him on one of his walks, he feels he can speak plainly to him. He still trusts Tyrion, despite the fact that he’s the Hand of a queen who wants him to bend the knee, who has intimated that she may imprison him if he does not. Despite that fact that he was the one who had penned the invitation to Dragonstone without mentioning that the purpose was to get him to bend the knee. “I’m a prisoner on this island.”

 

“I wouldn’t say you’re a prisoner on this island. You’re free to walk the castle, the beaches, to go wherever you want.”

 

He’s missing the point, going into semantics. “Except to my ship. You took my ship.”

 

“I wouldn’t say we took your ship—“

 

“I’m not playing word games with you,” Jon says. There’s no winning Tyrion when it comes to such things. “The dead are coming for us all.” He is frustrated with the fact that he’s here and not with his people in this time of great need.

 

“Why don’t you figure out what to do with my missing fleet and murdered allies, and I’ll figure out what to do with your walking dead men,” Tyrion suggests, in his characteristic way of making light of things.

 

_Walking dead men._ Tyrion’s choice of words tells Jon just what he thinks of them. “It’s hard for me to fathom, it really is. If someone told me about the Night Walkers and the Night King…” He’d give everything he had to fight them. Or would he? What if he hadn’t seen them with his own eyes, fought them, seen them kill good men and turn them into the walking dead? “You probably don’t believe me,” he finally says to Tyrion, resigned. He cannot blame him.

 

“I do, actually.”

 

Jon is surprised by this. “You didn’t before. Grumkins and Snarks, you called them, do you remember?”

 

Tyrion nods.

 

“You said it was all nonsense.”

 

“It was nonsense. And everybody knew it. But then Mormont saw them. And you saw them. And I trust the eyes of an honest man more than I trust what everybody knows.”

 

Jon is gratified. And he agrees. But then the problem has always been that he trusts too easily. He cannot say the same of others, not least the dragon queen. “How do I convince people who don’t know me that an enemy they don’t believe in is coming to kill them all?”

 

“Good question.”

 

“I know it’s a good question; I’m looking for an answer.”

 

“People’s minds aren’t made for problems that large,” Tyrion tells him. “White Walkers, the Night King, Army of the Dead. It’s almost a relief to confront the comfort of a familiar monster like my sister.” He’s as good as saying there’s no way to convince the dragon queen.

“I need to help prepare my people for what’s coming. I can’t help them from here. I’d like to leave,” he says, finally getting to his point. He knows it seems like a waste after their long journey here, but there is nothing for them here.

 

“It seems unlikely that you became King in the North by giving up that easily.” What Tyrion does not say is that they will not allow him to leave. He is for all intents and purposes a prisoner, whatever artificial freedoms they have conferred upon him to roam the grounds.

“Everyone told me to learn from my father’s mistakes, don’t go South. Don’t answer a summons from the Mad King’s daughter, a foreign invader. And here I am, the Northern fool.” The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He is irked by his stupidity. He has no one to blame but himself. His own people had cautioned him against coming to Dragonstone, but he had insisted. And now they are left without a leader. Sansa is a capable ruler, to be sure, but he feels uneasy leaving her in Winterfell with Littlefinger. He does not trust Littlefinger any farther than he can throw him, despite his help in defeating the Bolton army. Everyone back home at risk, all because of his misplaced trust.

 

“Children are not their fathers, luckily for all of us,” Tyrion says. Jon doesn’t know if he’s referring to Ned Stark, or the Mad King, or Tywin Lannister. Perhaps all of them. It doesn’t matter anymore; they are all dead and their children will soon be too. “Sometimes, there’s more to foreign invaders and Northern fools than meets the eye. Daenerys could have sailed for Westeros long ago, but she didn’t. Instead she stayed where she was and saved many people from horrible fates. Some of whom are on this island with us, right now. While you’re our guest here, you might consider asking them what they think of the Mad King’s daughter.”

 

Tyrion speaks with conviction, and Jon is somewhat intrigued; Tyrion is a cynical man. He does not easily attribute goodness to people. “She protects people from monsters, just as you do. It’s why she came here. She’s not about to head North to fight an enemy she’s never seen on the word of a man she doesn’t know, after a single meeting. It’s not a reasonable thing to ask.”

Jon clenches his jaw. He knows Tyrion speaks sense. But it does not make it any easier to accept. The consequences will be the same – death for them all, however reasonable the dragon queen is being in rejecting his request. He starts to leave, but Tyrion’s voice behind him stops him. “So do you have anything reasonable to ask?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Maybe you are a Northern fool,” Tyrion grumbles. “I’m asking if there’s something I _can_ do to help you.”

His mind immediately jumps to dragonglass. But the queen has already made it clear she doesn’t believe him. Why would she allow a man whom she has termed the enemy to the North to use her precious resources to forge weapons to fight monsters she doesn’t believe exist? Still, it can’t hurt to ask. Perhaps their time here will not be wasted after all.

 

 

~

 

 

It has been a tiring, difficult few days.

 

With the devastating news about the capture of their allies, Daenerys has spent her time sequestered in the Chamber of the Painted Table, reworking their entire battle strategy. She’s barely had time to think about the “King in the North”. But she is aware that, with two important allies now sunk, she must consider carefully how she wants to develop this potential relationship.

 

She had not known much of what to expect of him. The Red Priestess had painted quite a picture of the man. And Tyrion had said that he liked and trusted Jon Snow. She’d expected someone burly, rough, uncouth, as she would expect a Northerner and a man of the Night’s Watch to be. Or perhaps someone obviously charismatic, a smooth talker, a charmer – after all, he was a bastard who had somehow managed to convince the Houses of the North to pledge their allegiance to him.

 

As it turned out, he was neither. He had dark hair, dark eyes, and a strong jawline; that was so. But she had not expected these pretty features; that gentle mouth; that solemn, almost sad expression which cast a shadow over his face.

 

She had not expected his humble entrance, his quiet manner. Still less had she expected him to refuse to bend the knee, unarmed and outnumbered as he was. And how he had turned her words against her – not hold him to his ancestor’s oath, indeed! He was no diplomat, that was for sure.

 

And all his talk about an army of dead people!

 

He did not seem like a liar nor a madman. But what he was asking her to believe, and what he was asking her to do on the strength of those beliefs (which she herself did not hold), was unthinkable. Daenerys was not one given to superstitions, belief in myths and legends. The birth of her dragons had been the one miracle in her life, flesh and blood evidence of the impossible. She would not believe without seeing. Though Lord Snow had mentioned a Night King, and the Red Priestess had spoken of the Long Night – could these things somehow be related? But Daenerys brushes these musings aside; she has far more important things to think about.

 

Like the fact that she had used every tactic in her arsenal, but still he had refused to bow, refused to bend the knee. She must grudgingly admit that she respects his stubbornness in refusing to do so, and his frankness in explaining why. He does not seem unreasonable – in fact, he’d said some sensible things, albeit that they were not things she wanted to hear.

 

Still, it is disappointing, aggravating, that he seems to set no store by birthright. But she shouldn’t be surprised. After all, he is a bastard who has somehow come to be King in the North despite the fact that he has a half-sister, a legitimate daughter of Eddard Stark, who is still alive.

 

She’d raised it with Tyrion earlier, and he’d asked her to consider it from Lord Snow’s point of view. What if Daenerys had turned out to be like her father? The Westerosi people have grown up hearing tales of how brave King Robert Baratheon had fought to overthrow the Mad King, whom everyone feared and hated. What if it were not her standing before him but Viserys, demanding he bend the knee simply on the strength of Viserys’ birthright?

 

She’d understood immediately. It was a fair point. The thought of Viserys as King sent a shudder down her spine.

 

Still, does Lord Snow not see that she deserves this? That she has earned it? He is a fool if he thinks that the Dothraki and the Unsullied follow her simply because she is Aerys Targaryen’s daughter.

 

“So,” she asks Tyrion, when they finally have a moment. “How is our… guest finding Dragonstone?”

 

“I’ve been talking to him. He feels like a prisoner.”

 

She knows. The Northern lord has been pacing around Dragonstone like a caged wolf. Perhaps he’s looking for a way out? Or perhaps it is a souvenir of the time he spent beyond the Wall. She saw him that morning, standing on the edge of a cliff looking out across the sea and skies. She’s not sure if he knew it, but he had been facing North. The North – his home, and a land as foreign to her as any in Westeros. She can only imagine how he feels, stuck on an island unfamiliar to him, essentially held hostage, unable to do anything. He had made quite the picture, the wind blowing through his dark curls and barely ruffling the thick furs wrapped around him, before Tyrion had joined him.

 

“I told him he looks a lot better brooding than I do,” Tyrion adds, casting an arch look at her.

 

She ignores him, simply raising an eyebrow. Yes, she’s well aware. Lord Snow is handsome, there’s no denying that. There is something about that particular combination of pale skin, brown eyes, dark curls and thick, rough spun Northern clothing that is quite attractive to her. But she has seen, and been with, her fair share of good-looking men. This King in the North will not be a threat. Still, it would be far from torture to spend more time in the man’s presence.

 

She asks Tyrion to get to the point, and is surprised by his answer. Apparently, Lord Snow wants dragonglass, and there is plenty of it in Dragonstone. She is concerned that her Hand seems more dedicated to driving Lord Snow’s agenda than hers. “Why are we talking about glass? We just lost two of our allies.”

 

“Which is why I was speaking to Jon Snow, a potential ally.”

 

“And what does the King in the North want with dragonglass?” Was that why Lord Snow had come?

 

“Apparently it can be turned into weapons that kill White Walkers and their foot soldiers. Or… stop them. Destroy them. Unsure about the nomenclature.”

She cracks a smile at this. She’d given her Hand a shelling for their failed battle strategy a few evenings ago, and she’s feeling somewhat remorseful now. “And what do you think about this … “Army of the Dead” and “White Walkers” and “Night King”?”

 

“I would very much like to believe that Jon Snow is wrong. But a wise man once said that you should never believe a thing simply because you want to believe it.” He says this not meeting her eyes, and she calls him out on it.

 

“Which wise man said this?”

 

“I don’t remember.”

 

“Are you trying to present your own statements as ancient wisdom?”

 

“I would never do that… to you,” he admits. “The reason I believe Jon Snow is because he’s here. All of his advisors would have told him not to come. I would have told him not to come. But he’s here anyway. You don’t have to believe him. Let him mine the dragonglass. If he’s wrong, it’s worthless. You didn’t even know it was here. It’s nothing to you. Give him something by giving him nothing. Take a step towards a more productive relationship with a possible ally. Keep him occupied while we focus on the task at hand. Casterly Rock.”

She can see his point. Perhaps she will. But she’s no longer really paying attention. Her mind has drifted to their meeting with Lord Snow a few days ago. Ser Davos – who seems like a straight talking man – had spoken out strongly for Lord Snow, and said he’d taken a knife in the heart for his people. Lord Snow had stopped him from saying more, but she is curious. She turns to Tyrion. “What was that Ser Davos said, about taking a knife in the heart for his people? Did you notice that?”

 

But Tyrion does not answer her question. “You must allow them their flights of fancy. It’s dreary in the North.” She’s not sure if he truly doesn’t know, or if he does not wish to tell her. But she does not push him. Somehow or other, she will find out.

 

 

~

 

 

She is watching her children enjoy the Westerosi skies when she hears a voice behind her. “Amazing thing to see.”

 

She does not need to turn to know who it is. The voice, with its rough Northern accent, has remained strangely present in her mind ever since their meeting a few days ago. “I named them for my brothers, Viserys and Rhaegar. They’re both gone now.”

 

He does not say anything, but she turns to him and tries to make conversation, bearing in mind what Tyrion had said about cultivating allies. “You’ve lost your brothers as well.”

 

He simply nods. Not much one for talking, it appears. In the throne room, he had seemed somewhat belligerent. Now he just seems sad, weighed down by an invisible burden.

 

“People thought dragons were gone forever but here they are.” She pauses significantly. “Perhaps we should be examining what we think we know.”

 

He considers her words, trying to discern the meaning behind them. “You’ve been talking to Tyrion,” he concludes matter-of-factly.

 

“He is my hand,” she admits.

 

“He enjoys talking.”

 

“We all enjoy what we’re good at.” The statement seems obvious and incontrovertible, but he seems to be considering a response.

 

“I don’t,” he finally says, and it gives her pause. She looks at him then, but he is inscrutable, looking out across the sea. Up close and in the sunlight, she can see that his eyes are flecked with gold.

 

She wonders of what he is speaking – ruling? Fighting? Killing? She recalls with sudden clarity her conversation with Ser Barristan, who’d told her that Rhaegar had never liked killing. She can tell Jon Snow not saying these words to appear mysterious or to be controversial or to invite question. He’s saying them because he means them.

 

She finds herself wanting to know more about this man, to ask him what he means and whether he’d taken a knife in the heart for his people, but she checks herself. This is no time to be friendly with the Northern lord. He has, after all, refused to bend the knee. “You know I’m not going to let Cersei stay on the Iron Throne.”

 

“I never expected you would,” he says, meeting her eyes then.

 

“And I haven’t changed my mind about which kingdoms belong to that throne.”

 

“I haven’t either,” he says combatively. The tension is thick as they stare at each other. They are at an impasse. He is not going to back down, she knows.

 

She turns away first. “I will allow you to mine the dragonglass and forge weapons from it. Any resources or men you need I will provide.”

 

There is a stunned silence from Lord Snow as what she’s saying sinks in. When he thanks her, his expression – though not quite a smile – makes her feel like she would happily do more to keep it on his face. In that moment she understands that this man has the ability to make her heart beat just that bit faster. She turns away abruptly.

 

Most people would be happy with being given what he has been given. But he doesn’t want just that. “So you believe me, then, about the Night King and the Army of the Dead?”

 

She cannot lie. She would like very much to believe that they do not exist. But if so, what does that make him then – a liar or a madman? So she avoids the question. “You’d better get to work, Jon Snow.” After referring to him as Lord Snow in her mind for so long, the name feels foreign on her tongue.

 

She dismisses him with a slight turn of her body back towards the sea and sky she was admiring before he came. But she can’t help turning back to glance at him as he walks away. _Jon Snow._ There is in fact a nice ring to it.


	3. Dragonglass cave and good hearts

“Your grace, there’s still no word from the Unsullied,” Missandei says as she and Daenerys walk around the grounds, accompanied as usual by Dothraki guards. She says this as if she’s simply reporting to her queen the state of their troops, but Daenerys knows her well enough to know that she is worried.

“Soon, he will come back to you,” Daenerys assures her.

 

“He’d better.”

She’d known of Missandei’s feelings for Grey Worm, but this sounds… different. She looks at her friend. “What happened?”

 

Missandei smiles coyly. “Many things,” she says softly.

 

“Many things?” Daenerys probes, but Missandei refuses to meet her eyes. They are ripe for a chat. She sees Missandei often enough as her advisor, but they have been so busy with battle plans and meetings that they have not had time to catch up properly, as friends.

 

They are interrupted by Jon Snow, who calls up to her from the beach. She gives Missandei a meaningful look – they shall speak soon. She does not miss the meaningful look Missandei gives her in return before Daenerys instructs her Dothraki guards to leave them, and they follow Jon Snow down to the beach. Apparently he’s found the dragonglass. She realizes that for all that she has been here longer than he has, and for all that this is her ancestral home, she knows next to nothing about it.

 

He leads them across the beach to a cave carved into the side of a cliff. She finds her eyes traversing the broad contours of his back before she remembers herself. She hopes Missandei does not notice.

 

Ser Davos, who is waiting at the mouth of the cave, hands Jon Snow a lit torch before following them wordlessly into the cave.

 

“I wanted you to see it before we start hacking it to bits,” Jon Snow tells them as they enter the cave. It is cold and damp, and although it is still daylight outside, after turning a few corners there is only darkness. Holding a torch, he leads them through a maze of narrow tunnels before stopping at a cavern which feels just a bit warmer than the rest. He lifts the torch, and suddenly she can see it – opalescent black stone, embedded into the rock, reaching miles overhead. “This is it. All we’ll ever need.”

 

She looks around, awestruck. There is dragonglass in Dragonstone – so much of it – and she didn’t even know it. It is beautiful, glittering like black jewels in the warm firelight. She goes from wall to wall, running her fingers over the crevices in the walls, feeling the dragonglass warm under her touch. It has probably been around from the time of her ancestors. It has endured while her family members have all perished.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him looking seriously at her. “There is something else I want to show you, your grace.”

 

More dragonglass, perhaps? Diamonds? Crypts? She leaves Missandei behind and follows him. She is unafraid that this is some trick or way to get her alone away from her guards – she instinctively trusts this man. Indeed she finds herself unwittingly leaning in towards him. She tells herself it is because it is colder here, and he holds a torch in his hands.

 

They go through a few more winding tunnels before he gestures towards a cavern and hands her a torch. When the firelight illuminates the walls, she can barely hold back her gasp. There is no dragonglass here – instead, here there are drawings carved into the walls - hundreds of inscriptions of what looks like the sun, spirals, strange symbols she does not recognize. Perhaps she has seen them in the books she’d looked at as a child; she’s not sure. She is speechless.

“The Children of the Forest made these,” Jon Snow tells her.

 

“When?” she can barely speak. This feels sacred, like she has gone back in time to an ancient world. The drawings are primitive, but they spark more emotion in her than any prized work of art she has seen in the Free Cities. They awake in her a sense of the enormity of the world.

 

“A very long time ago.”

 

The discovery is humbling. She seldom feels small, but she feels small now. She’s standing in the presence of something greater than herself, than any of them. The great Houses now feel almost… irrelevant in the wake of this discovery. They are but mere infants in the passage of time. “They were right here, standing where we’re standing, before there were Targaryens or Starks or Lannisters. Maybe even before there were men.”

 

“No.” He leads her to another wall, the drawings on this one depicting figures large and small. “They were here together, the Children and the First Men.”

 

“Doing what? Fighting each other?” she assumes, knowing what she knows of human nature.

 

There is a long pause while he gazes at her. Her heart races. She’s not sure whether the tremor that runs through her is from the cold or from the gaze cast by the man looking at her with impossibly dark eyes. She lets him take her by the arm and lead her to the adjacent wall, conscious of just where his hand gently rests on her arm through her layers of clothing.

 

But her attention is drawn by the drawings on this wall. Skeletal figures with long hair and beards and bright blue eyes, wielding spears of some sort. She does not know what they are, but she fights not to shudder. Are these the White Walkers and the Army of the Dead Jon Snow was talking about?

 

His next words confirm her suspicion. “They fought together, against their common enemy. Despite their differences, despite their suspicions. Together,” he emphasizes, and she turns back to face him. His face is grim. “We need to do the same if we’re going to survive. Because the enemy is real. It’s always been real.” He’s not a master of words, not like Tyrion, but his carefully chosen words, honestly spoken, rouse something in her.

 

For several moments, they simply stare at each other. His eyes are dark and flecked with amber, and she is suddenly terribly aware that they are alone. Out there, they are always being watched, but here… here they are alone. Together. She struggles to stay focused on what they are talking about. “And you say you can’t defeat them without my armies and my dragons?”

 

He looks humbled. “No, I don’t think I can,” he admits.

 

She steps closer, and he looks somewhat apprehensive. “I will fight for you,” she tells him. “I will fight for the North... when you bend the knee.”

 

His face falls. “My people won’t accept a Southern ruler. Not after everything they’ve suffered.”

 

She steps even closer, her eyes locked on his. “They will if their king does. They chose you to lead them. They chose you to protect them. Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?”

 

 

~

 

 

He’s finding it hard to breathe in the cave. In the firelight Daenerys’s eyes gleam a dark violet and her hair is even more stunningly bright than usual. He’d known she was beautiful before, but seeing her face now bathed in the arm glow of firelight sends a punch to his gut. Her wide-eyed wonder as she took in first the dragonglass, and then the drawings made by the Children of the Forest, leave his throat dry.

 

He’s not sure what possesses him to take her arm as he leads her to another wall. He feels lucky he didn’t get a slap in the face or – worse – cold, pointed stare for taking such a liberty.

 

He’s grateful that the darkness hides the blush that surely stains his cheeks. He isn’t usually so susceptible to the beauty and charms of women – he’d known Ygritte a lot longer before he’d started thinking her beautiful, but Daenerys is particularly enchanting.

 

He is careful not to walk too closely as they pick their way out of the cave, but the passages are so narrow and winding that despite his efforts, their hands accidentally brush once or twice in the dark. Jon wonders if this wasn’t a bad idea after all. She’s almost made him forget what they are there for.

 

And it has not worked. After all he has shown her, and for all that she’d marveled at all that she’d seen, she’d only agreed to help if he bent the knee. _They will if their king does. They chose you to lead them. They chose you to protect them. Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?_

 

He has no answer to that. He doesn’t tell her that he thinks they will not listen to their King, that they may not bend the knee even if he does, that they would likely sooner revolt. He does not tell her that he does not fancy another knife in his chest.

 

When they get outside, Tyrion and Varys are waiting for them. He can tell from the looks on their faces that they have bad news. Daenerys does not realize this at first, but when she does, she is enraged.

 

The Unsullied have captured Casterly Rock, but the Red Army has marched on Highgarden. Daenerys has lost _all_ her allies.

 

The childlike wonder that had lit her face in the cave is gone. The wrath of a Targaryen is not a pretty thing to witness. The full force of her fury is terrifying, and Tyrion gets the brunt of it, for the bad fortune of being related to Cersei and Jamie.

 

Jon meets Davos’s eyes, and they share a look of two who know they should not be there, who wish to excuse themselves, but they dare not interrupt Daenerys now, not when she’s in dragon queen mode. So Jon tries valiantly to pretend he isn’t there, isn’t listening to the tongue-lashing Tyrion is getting, until she suddenly turns to him. “What do you think I should do?” she demands.

 

He is startled, and shows it. He should not even be part of this discussion. “I would never presume—” he begins, but the dragon queen is insistent.

 

“I’m at war. I’m losing. _What do you think I should do?_ ” she asks in a tone that brooks no argument.

 

He can feel all their eyes on him, Daenerys and her advisors and Ser Davos. They seem surprised as well. Why is she asking this of him and not them? He looks at her, and her eyes are serious, blazing. She truly wants to know what he thinks. He looks out at the dragons in the sky, thinks for a moment.

 

_I have three large dragons. I’m going to fly them to the Red Keep,_ she’d said. _My enemies are in the Red Keep. What kind of a queen am I if I’m not willing to risk my life to fight them?_

 

She is a queen who is willing to do things herself and put herself in danger, rather than hide behind a fortress and a battalion of men ready to kill and die for her. Jon is simultaneously taken aback and impressed. But quite apart from the fact that all it would require is an arrow to take her down, he’s conscious that thousands live in the Red Keep, and dragons are probably not the most discriminating when it comes to just who or what is in their path when they breathe fire…

 

“I never thought that dragons would exist again. No one did.” He turns back to her, meets her eyes. “The people who follow you know that you made something impossible happen. Maybe that helps them believe that you can make other impossible things happen. Build a world that’s different from the shit one they’ve always known.” He forces himself not to break his gaze even as he knows his next words may not be altogether pleasing to Daenerys. “But if you use them to melt castles and burn cities… you’re not different. You’re just more of the same.”

 

 

~

 

 

“What do you think of her?” Ser Davos does his usual springing of difficult, random questions as they are returning to the castle from an inspection of the dragonglass harvesting.

 

“Who?” Jon asks, as if she were not already in his mind at that very moment. The queen is away now, gone away on Drogon to the Red Keep, but she has not left his mind for more than two minutes probably since their first meeting several days ago.

 

Ser Davos sighs, as if he cannot believe they are descending to this level of pretense. “I believe you know of whom I speak.”

 

What can he say? She is clever and kind, ambitious and brave. She is quick to anger, but this seemed to arise from her passionate nature rather than any unpleasantness. She seems to be respected and loved by those around her. Her words can cut like the raw edge of a diamond. She is beautiful and wild and fiery, every inch a dragon.

 

“I think she has a good heart,” he finally says. Which is true, but such insipid words they are.

 

“A good heart? I’ve noticed you staring at her good heart,” Ser Davos jibes him.

 

There is no point denying that he has been staring at her. It has been difficult not to, despite the fact that he knows it is somewhat inappropriate.

 

“There’s no time for that,” is all he can say. It’s what he has been telling himself. “I saw the Night King, Davos, I looked into his eyes,” he explains. There is no point getting into romantic entanglements when there are bigger problems ahead, when they make not make it through winter. So he changes the subject. “How many men do we have in the North to fight him? Ten thousand, less?”

 

“Fewer,” Ser Davos tells him. He does not pursue the point. “Speaking of good hearts, Missandei of Naath.”

“Ser Davos, Lord Snow,” the queen’s advisor greets them. She too is lovely and regal, Jon reminds himself. The queen is not so special. He should not be spending so much time thinking about her.

 

“King Snow, isn’t it?” Ser Davos corrects her. “No, that doesn’t sound right. King Jon?” he jokes, turning to Jon.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells Ser Davos. He doesn’t want to put Missandei on the spot, especially when her queen is not around.

 

“Forgive me, but may I ask a question.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Your name is Jon Snow but your father’s name is Ned Stark,” she says, looking to Jon for an explanation.

 

“I’m a bastard,” he tells her. After all these years it still embarrasses him to explain this fact to people. “My mother and father weren’t married.”

 

Missandei looks confused.

 

Ser Davos must have picked up on his discomfort and her confusion, because he asks, “Is the custom different in Naath?”

 

“We don’t have marriage in Naath, so the concept of a bastard doesn’t exist,” Missandei tells them.

 

Jon is surprised. Growing up, he wasn’t really taught the customs of the Free Cities, but the way Lady Catelyn had treated him, he’d assumed it was a shameful thing the world over.

 

“Sounds… liberating?” Ser Davos jokes, turning to Jon.

 

“Why did you leave your homeland?” Jon asks Missandei. While he’s in Dragonstone, he might as well find out more about what makes this dragon queen so loved by her people, as Tyrion had suggested.

 

“I was stolen away by slavers.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely.

 

“If I may, how did a slave girl come to advise Daenerys Targaryen?” Ser Davos asks. Jon is curious to find out as well.

 

“She bought me from my master and set me free.”

 

“That was good of her. Of course, you’re serving her now, aren’t you?” Ser Davos points out.

 

His meaning is plain, and Missandei grows defensive. “I serve my queen because I want to serve my queen. Because I believe in her.”

 

Jon is intrigued. He wants to know just how far the queen goes to take care of her people. “And if you wanted to sail home to Naath tomorrow?

 

“Then she would give me a ship and wish me good fortune.”

 

Even for a good and fair ruler, that sounds unbelievable. “You believe that?” Jon asks, skeptical.

 

“I know it,” she tells him firmly. “All of us who came with her from Essos, we believe in her. She’s not our queen because she’s the daughter of some king we never met. She’s the queen we chose.” Her conviction is palpable, and Jon can’t help but wonder what his own people would say if questioned. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind reviews on the first two chapters! Hope you enjoyed this one as well - if you did, I'd really appreciate it if you leave a review!


	4. Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon interacts with Drogon and meets Jorah; Daenerys and Missandei have a long overdue chat.

The journey home from Blackwater Rush is a smooth one, despite Drogon’s injury, but a tumultuous one in Daenery’s mind. The landscape below her is still fairly new, novel, unfamiliar – and therefore exciting – but she sees them without seeing them truly, distracted by the thoughts swirling about in her head.

 

The battle has shaken her more than she lets on. First, Drogon’s injury and then death staring her in the face as Jamie Lannister sped towards her with a lance. Thankfully, the spear that pierced Drogon has left him with barely a scratch. And Jamie Lannister had not got to her. Still, if Drogon had not looked up at that precise moment, things might have turned out differently. She is not invincible, even with three dragons, even with powerful armies at her beck and call. She has always been aware of that, but no more so than today. Perhaps that accounts for her uncharacteristic harshness towards the men who’d survived the battle.

 

She hates to second guess herself – there will be casualties in any war, and sometimes one must make sacrifices for the greater good – but she feels somewhat uneasy – not so much about the battle won with Drogon, but about the men won over with Drogon. These men had seen Drogon in action and still some had refused to bend the knee, at first. They would be the first from whom she has extracted fealty by way of a threat of death.

 

They won’t be the last.

 

The words of the King in the North have haunted her since they were uttered. “ _… If you use them to melt castles and burn down cities, you’re not different. You’re just more of the same._ ”

 

She had taken heed of his advice as she had planned her next course of action. But she’d reasoned that she wasn’t going to melt castles or burn down cities. This was a targeted attack – only on the Red Army, and not on civilians. Blood would be shed in any event. Could she be blamed for wanting to save the lives of her men? She was simply arming her troops with a dragon. If that gave her an advantage, it wasn’t an unfair one. Would he really have done differently?

 

The look on his face as she’d made known her decision to fly to the Red Army was inscrutable. But being a ruler meant one had to make difficult choices. And, truth be told, that made being a ruler lonely. She had Tyrion and Missandei and Grey Worm, all of whom were loyal and smart and whom she would trust with her life, but none of them could understand, not really.

 

Full as her thoughts are of Jon Snow’s words as she and Drogon fly back to Dragonstone, she is almost unsurprised that he is the first thing she sees upon reaching.

 

Jon Snow is standing alone on the edge of a cliff, his coat and cape blowing in the wind. One thing she’s noticed is that unlike her, Jon Snow isn’t always surrounded by his advisors and his men. She doesn’t quite know what to make of it. Still, he looks every inch a king. She would have liked the opportunity to study him for a bit as he stands in solitude without making her presence known, but of course, flying in as she is on Drogon, that is not possible.

 

To Daenerys’ surprise, Drogon decides to land at the cliff Jon Snow is on. The ground shakes as Drogon lands heavily. He starts approaching Jon Snow, and then starts running towards him, letting out a deafening roar.

 

Most men would have run by now, backed away, looked to her for reassurance. Apparently, Jon Snow is not most men. He is afraid, she can tell. She can see the shallow rise and fall of his shoulders, the forced evenness of his breathing. But he does not so much as flinch. He stays still as Drogon takes stock of him. And then he takes a step closer and then another step. He peels off a glove, and his intent becomes clear.

 

Daenerys’ breath hitches in her throat. She is tempted to warn him to step away. Drogon could burn him alive in a split second, as he did the Tarlys. She could put a calming hand on Drogon. But she too is curious. This is between Jon Snow and Drogon, and she will stay out of it. She watches with a strange sensation in her gut as Jon Snow slowly he reaches out a trembling hand and tentatively strokes Drogon on the snout.

 

Her heart doubles its beat, and she wonders vaguely if Drogon can sense it somehow. She is entranced. It is beautiful to watch, this innocent interaction between Jon Snow and her child. It feels elemental, somehow. Right. Apart from herself and Tyrion, no one else has come close to doing what he is doing. She feels a ripple run through Drogon’s body, a relaxation. She feels more kindly towards Jon Snow already. She trusts her children to be better judges of character than herself, and apparently Drogon trusts him.

 

And, to be honest, she trusts him as well.

 

 

~

 

 

Dragons can’t be all that different from direwolves, Jon tells himself, even as he eyes the row of perfectly sharp, pointed teeth not a foot away from his face. Be still, and let them come, let them decide how friendly they want to be. So he does not move, lets Drogon familiarize himself with his scent. Two seconds pass, and Drogon has not bitten off his hand nor incinerated him. Jon counts himself lucky.

 

And then – because he may never get the chance again – he decides to do it. He inches closer. He has died once already, he reasons with himself. This life is a bonus. Touching a dragon may well be the greatest thing he does in this lifetime, King in the North be damned. Still, his hand trembles as it stretches towards Drogon.

 

He feels a strange connection to Drogon, to the dragons. It isn’t just that they are fearsome creatures, and thought to be extinct. His very blood seems to thrum when he is around them.

 

Drogon’s hide feels rough beneath his fingertips, and surprisingly cool.

 

Up close, he can see that Drogon’s eyes are a swirling amber, reflecting the fire within. The expression in them is strangely human. Drogon blinks once, slowly. Jon is still standing, still alive. He has passed the test. He lets out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

 

Drogon turns, and Jon looks up to see the Queen climbing off Drogon’s back. Lost in the moment, he’d almost forgotten that she was there. It still amazes him, how this tiny woman commands three dragons, reputedly gave birth to them. The flap of Drogon’s wings as he lifts off the ground to join his brothers creates a rush of air so loud he can barely hear her.

 

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” she says, smiling fondly at her dragons.

 

 _Well._ “Wasn’t the word I was thinking of, but—“ seeing her smile morph into a glare, he hastily revises his statement - “yes, they are. Gorgeous beasts.”

 

“They’re not beasts to me,” she tells him. “No matter how big they get or how terrifying to everyone else—“ As if on cue, one of the dragons screeches – “They’re my children.” She turns to look at the sky, where the dragons are soaring in lazy arcs. He doesn’t know why she’s telling him this, but he can see from her expression that she means it, that she loves these dragons as her children.

“You weren’t gone long,” he notes.

 

“No,” she agrees.

 

“And?” he prompts. He knows that he is being bold, asking the Queen about her battles like this. But she had started it, asking for his opinion on how she should proceed.

She meets his gaze straight on. “And I have fewer enemies today than I did yesterday.” His disappointment must be evident, because she continues, “You’re not sure how you feel about that.”

“No, I’m not,” he tells her truthfully. While he has seen enough to believe that Daenerys Targaryen is not like her father, she must know that she is treading a thin line. But it is not his place. He’d given his opinion when asked, but he will not venture it now.

 

“How many men did your army kill taking Winterfell back from the Boltons?” she asks as they start walking back to the castle companionably.

 

He can see where she is going with this. “Thousands,” he admits.

“We both want to help people. We can only help them from a position of strength. Sometimes strength is terrible,” she says matter-of-factly. He wonders exactly what and how much she has experienced, to say these things.

 

Abruptly she stops and looks at him seriously. “When you first came here, Ser Davos said you took a knife in the heart for your people.”

 

There is no easy explanation for this, so he simply says, “Ser Davos gets carried away.”

 

“So it was a figure of speech?”

Her eyes are searching, and he does not want to lie. He looks away and tries to think of what he can say, when they are interrupted by her Dothraki guards.

 

Daenerys converses with them in Dothraki, and then a tall blond man steps out from behind the guards. He walks towards Daenerys, never taking his eyes of her, and kneels. “Your grace.”

 

To his surprise, Daenerys introduces the man as Jorah Mormont. He is the son of the Lord Commander Jon had served, a slave trader, a man who had chosen the love of a woman over duty. Eddard Stark had sentenced him to death. “I served with your father. He was a great man.”

 

The queen smiles at Jorah, and it occurs to Jon that this is the first time he has seen her smile like that. Trusting. Unguarded. “You look strong. You found a cure?”

 

“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t. I return to your service, my queen. If you’ll have me.” He adds. He’s gazing at the queen with a look of utter submission.

 

“It would be my honour.” She is smiling again.

 

To Jon’s surprise, she goes forward and hugs Jorah Mormont, whose arms close around her. They stay like this for a few seconds as Jon counts slowly to ten in his head.

 

He doesn’t like the strange feeling welling up in him at the sight. He is – not quite uneasy – but he doesn’t like it. He’s feeling a bit foolish, though he’s not sure why. Had he, in some tiny, unconscious part of his mind, let himself hope?

 

He wants to turn away, but he does not. Instead, he meets Jorah Mormont’s eyes as Mormont disengages from the hug. They hold a hint of curiosity and suspicion as they regard him, but he does not appear hostile.

 

He wonders what they are to each other. She’d called him “an old friend”, but this is the first time he’s seen the queen so openly tender and affectionate with someone, apart from her dragons. And Mormont is evidently smitten with the queen, however formally he may address her. Jon tries not to think about this, but it shadows him for the rest of the day.

 

 

~

 

 

When Daenerys is finally settled in for the night, she calls Missandei in to her. Between the news about Highgarden and her journey to the Red Keep, she’s not had time to chat with her friend about what she had alluded to a few days ago.

 

She gets to the point. “So, - “many things”?” She asks Missandei. There is no need to explain her question.

 

A rosy flush tinges Missandei’s cheeks. But they are in the Queen’s chambers; here they can be open, just two girls and a bottle of Dornish wine. So Missandei tells her everything.

 

Daenerys had been curious to know what _could_ happen, when the Unsullied are, well, unsullied, for lack of a better word. She is intrigued by what Missandei tells her of the Lord’s Kiss. Her bedroom experiences thus far have not been lacking, but none of the previous lovers have done for her what Missandei describes. Thinking of these things makes her suddenly feel the loss of Daario. She may feel nothing leaving him behind, but Dragonstone is colder than she is used to, and she wishes she had someone to warm her bed at night.

 

An image flits, sudden and unbidden, into her mind – a pale jaw, dark with stubble, between her legs. It shocks her with how vivid it is and how it makes the blood rush to her cheeks. She quashes it swiftly. No time for that. Jon Snow is, if not quite the enemy, still the professed King in the North. It would not do to entertain fantasies about such a man.

 

Still, she feels a strange yearning to get to know Jon Snow better – his thoughts, his experiences, what he meant when he’d said he didn’t enjoy what he was good at, whether he’d really taken a knife in the heart for his people. He has shattered all expectations so far, but he remains fairly tight lipped about himself. It does not help that their time together is always being interrupted – bad news upon bad news, and then Jorah’s return. She wishes to know what Missandei thinks of him.

 

If Missandei is surprised by the question, she does not show it. She thinks for a long time before answering. “I think he is a good man. He seems to care a lot for his people.”

 

She pauses, and Daenerys senses an unspoken “but” in there, so she prompts Missandei.

 

“But I do not think he would make a good king. I think he would be a just ruler, and a kind one. But he does not seem like he wants to be king,” Missandei explains. “And an unhappy king cannot be a good one.”

 

“He has refused to bend the knee,” Daenerys points out.

 

“I cannot say why he refuses, but it does not seem to me he enjoys being King in the North.”

 

She knows what Missandei means. Jon Snow has a touch of melancholia and guilt about him. He seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. But despite everything, he has a certain air about him. Nobility is perhaps not quite the word, but kingly is not unsuitable. “What is he like with his men?”

 

“They like and respect him,” Missandei says. “Though Ser Davos seems almost too… comfortable around him.”

 

“Oh?” Daenerys isn’t surprised. Ser Davos had done a terrible job introducing Jon Snow at their first meeting, and Jon Snow had barely batted an eyelid. From their interactions they seem more like friends than advisor and king.

 

“Ser Davos… jokes a lot. Sometimes at the expense of Lord Snow.” Missandei tells her about her conversation with Jon Snow and Ser Davos while Daenerys was away at the Red Keep, and what happened thereafter. “Lord Snow spoke very harshly to Theon Greyjoy.”

 

“Theon Greyjoy betrayed the Starks,” she tells Missandei. Jon Snow had lost his brothers, and his sister, because of what Theon Greyjoy had set in motion. She’d have burned Theon Greyjoy alive if she were Jon. “And Jon Snow loves his family.”

 

“He does not seem to like being a bastard.”

 

“Well, it does mean that he’s not the legitimate heir.”

 

“It isn’t that. He seemed almost ashamed about it when he was explaining it to me.” There is a pause while Daenerys digests this, and Missandei asks curiously, “If I may – where did he take your grace to, in the dragonglass cave?”

 

Despite the fact that nothing had happened in that cave – outside of her imagination, that is – Daenerys blushes.

 

“If your grace is not comfortable—” Missandei begins.

 

“No, no.” Missandei has been so open with her, it is only fair Daenerys gives something back. And there is nothing to hide. “He took me to see some inscriptions on the walls of the cave, made by the Children of the Forest. There were drawings of the First Men and of the White Walkers he’s been talking about.” She wonders that she has not mentioned any of this to any of her advisors. She reasons that they were distracted that day by the news about Highgarden. “He thinks that the Children and the First Men fought together against the White Walkers.”

 

“Does your grace believe him then?”

 

“I’m not sure,” she tells Missandei truthfully. The drawings mean nothing; the Children could very well have been drawing something out of legend; she’s sure there were myths and fairytales, even then. “But I don’t think he’s lying. If anything, I hope he is mistaken.”

 

Missandei looks at her appraisingly. “And what does your grace think of Lord Snow?”

 

Now there’s a loaded question, if there ever was one.

 

As a fellow leader, she trusts him and respects his opinions. As a man – well, what does she think? She doesn’t even know herself.

 

Daario had oozed charm and danger, a certain daredevilry that was attractive in its nonchalance and unpredictability.

 

Jon is… different. He’s no stranger to danger either, going by his reputation as a warrior and his interactions with Drogon earlier that day. But he is quiet, unassuming. He does not command the room at first glance, yet there is something about him that makes people listen when he speaks. He cares for his people and his family greatly. His manner is gentle, but there’s an intensity and seriousness in the man that’s rather… compelling. He is not the sort of man she ever thought she’d be attracted to, but there you are.

 

“If you’d asked me two weeks ago what I thought of Jon Snow,” Daenerys says, thinking carefully, hoping her voice doesn’t crack on his name, “I’d have told you I thought he was infuriating, and impertinent, and quite unimpressive. Now…” her eyes meets Missandei’s, “I’ve changed my mind.”

 

She doesn’t say more, but it is enough.


	5. Strangers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon decides to go to Eastwatch, much to Daenerys' discomfort. Jon and Daenerys have a conversation about the Tarlys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very much for your kind reviews! Although this fic is meant to be based largely on the TV show, I've introduced a couple of extra scenes which I hope will help flesh out the story better. Do let me know what you think :)

** Chapter 5: Strangers **

 

Shortly after her return from Blackwater Rush, Varys informs Daenerys that there is a sealed letter for Jon Snow.

 

“What does it say?” she asks.

 

“It’s sealed, your grace—” he begins, but at her hard look he tells her, “It’s from Winterfell. As it turns out, Brandon Stark and Arya Stark are still alive. There’s also some mention of the Night King marching.”

 

Daenerys quickly summons Jon Snow and Ser Davos to the Chamber of the Painted Table.

 

Jon reads the short note, crumples it up in his fist. “I thought Arya was dead. I thought Bran was dead.”

 

“I’m happy for you,” Daenerys says. She knows Jon Snow is not one to feel threatened by the return of his siblings. But she notices that of the plethora of emotions running across his face, joy does not appear to be one of them. “You don’t look happy.”

 

“Bran saw the Night King and his army marching towards Eastwatch. If they make it past the Wall—”

 

“The Wall has kept them out for thousands of years,” Varys points out.

 

“I need to go home,” Jon Snow tells Daenerys flatly. This is the first time he is expressing this wish to her, and it upsets her more than she’d like to admit, for reasons she doesn’t care to examine right now.

 

“You said you don’t have enough men,” Daenerys reminds him, even while she has the sinking feeling that this is not the sort of thing that would stop him at all. He is just the kind to do an idiotic thing like put himself in the front line to lead a charge when it would be suicide. While she hates what this means, this is also why she respects him – he would rather go back to fight with his people and his family against any invader from beyond the Wall than remain safely here.

 

True enough, he tells her, “We’ll fight with the men we have.” He pauses and looks up at her. “Unless you’ll join us?”

“And give the country to Cersei? As soon as I march away, she marches in,” she says. At the same time, she cannot stand the idea of letting Jon Snow go back to Winterfell to fight the Army of the Dead himself. Jon Snow had told them about the White Walkers and the Army of the Dead – exactly what they could do, and exactly how they could not be killed. And how the wights were created, zombies of people who had once fought them, raised to life again by the White Walkers. Daenerys had thought briefly of Khal Drogo, of how he had died and lived as a dead man at the end. She had killed him to spare him. Still, it had not been an easy thing to do, and she hopes she will never again have to kill an undead loved one.

 

No one points out that the queen appears to have relented on her previous stance – while before, she’d point blank refused to help in the North’s fight unless Jon Snow bent the knee, now, it’s the matter of how to keep Cersei at bay if Daenerys sends her armies to the North.

 

To her surprise, Tyrion interjects, “Perhaps not. Cersei thinks the Army of the Dead is nothing but a story, made up by wet nurses to frighten children. What if we prove her wrong?”

 

Jon Snow gives him a wry smile. “I don’t think she’ll come to see the dead at my invitation.”

 

“So bring the dead to her,” Tyrion urges.

 

Daenerys’ sense of unease grows. “I thought that was what we were trying to avoid.”

 

“We don’t have to bring the whole army,” Tyrion says. “Only one soldier.”

 

“Is that possible?” Ser Davos asks.

 

Jon Snow considers this for a moment. “The first wight I ever saw was brought into Castle Black beyond the Wall,” he tells them.

 

“Bring one of these things into King’s Landing and show her the truth,” Tyrion says. She wonders why Tyrion is suddenly so keen on this when he hadn’t believed Jon Snow to begin with.

 

“Anything you bring back will be useless unless Cersei grants us an audience and is somehow convinced not to murder us the moment we set foot in the capital,” Varys points out.

 

Daenerys feels thankful she has at least one sensible advisor. Her Hand, however, remains oblivious to her internal turmoil. “The only person she listens to is Jaime. He might listen to me.”

 

Daenerys balks as she realizes that Tyrion intends to go to King’s Landing to talk to his brother. “And how would you get into King’s Landing?” she challenges him. She realizes later, regrettably too late, that this sounds like an implicit endorsement of the whole harebrained scheme.

 

The rest of the room turns to Ser Davos expectantly. He seems reluctant, but finally tells them he can smuggle Tyrion in. It seems she is being thwarted at every turn.

 

“Well it will all be for nothing if we don’t have one of these dead men,” she says, hoping to put the idea to rest.

“Fair point. How do you propose to find one?” Varys asks Jon Snow, and Daenerys sees immediately that this is not going according to plan, for Jon Snow is looking contemplative. Daenerys can almost see the wheels turning in his head, and her own mind has skipped ahead to what this will mean. No, no, no…

And then, to her surprise, Jorah offers to go. She looks at him, aghast. She has only just got him back from the brink of death, and now he wants to traipse off beyond the Wall to bring back a creature that until recently she had not believed existed.

 

“You asked me to find a cure so I could serve you. Allow me to serve you,” Jorah says.

She swallows the bile that has risen in her throat at his words. This is what it is to be queen. Have men offer to do brave things for her and die in her service.

She has barely gotten over one blow when she is dealt another. “The free folk will help us,” Jon Snow says. “They know the real North better than anyone.”

 

She does not miss the fact that he says “us” and not “you”, but Ser Davos does. “They won’t follow Ser Jorah,” Ser Davos says, still oblivious to the foolish, foolish thoughts that Daenerys knows are running through his king’s head.

 

“They won’t have to,” Jon Snow replies. But he is not looking at Ser Davos, but at her. He doesn’t elaborate; his meaning is plain. A deep dread settles in the pit of her stomach. Stupid, brave man.

Ser Davos is visibly indignant. “You can’t lead a raid beyond the Wall. You’re not in the Night’s Watch anymore; you’re King in the North!”

 

Jon Snow stands his ground. “I’m the only one here who’s fought them. I’m the only one here who knows them.”

It seems even his responsibilities as King in the North will stop him from going ahead with this foolhardy plan. Her desperation is palpable now. Swallowing the lump of fear that has risen in her throat, her mind clutches at the first thing it can think of to stop him. “I haven’t given you permission to leave.”

 

The tension in the room escalates to a new high.

Jon Snow turns to her seriously. She has noticed how, when they are in a room together, it sometimes feels like they are the only two people in it. There is a resolve and a hint of defiance in his eyes that tells her what he is going to say is not going to agree with her. “With respect, your grace, I don’t need your permission. I am a king. And I came here, knowing that you could have your men behead me or your dragons burn me alive. I put my trust in you, a stranger. Because I knew it was the best chance for my people, for all our people… Now I’m asking you to trust in a stranger. Because it’s our best chance.”

 

He pauses and looks at her.

Her heart is pounding. Her disappointment that he is leaving – with or without her permission – wars with the admiration and respect that his speech has undeniably sparked in her. She wishes he weren’t saying these things, wishes she weren’t moved by his speech, but she is. But Jon Snow has got one thing wrong – he is no stranger to her, not anymore, not in her mind. To agree to his request would be tantamount to sending him, decidedly _not_ a stranger, to his grave.

 

She looks at Tyrion, hoping he will say something to put this whole rubbish notion to a halt, but he is waiting for her to make the call. Wordlessly, she nods her assent.

 

~

  


  


The following days are spent planning. At times they hole up in the Chamber of the Painted Table, at times they split off to work on their own tasks – Jon to equip Jorah with dragonglass weapons and teach him how to go about killing wights, Ser Davos to plan the route to smuggle Tyrion into King’s Landing, Tyrion to plan how to meet Jaime without raising suspicion, Daenerys to—she doesn’t know. She sits in on discussions, making helpful remarks now and then, but she feels useless. Like it has been taken out of her control. A queen who must rely on others to do her fighting for her.

 

Still, she is grateful for every day they do not leave, for it puts their deaths further off. The hope is that they would run in, grab a straggler, and leave without alerting the rest of the army. Of course, more often than not nothing quite goes according to plan, as recent events have proven.

 

They begin taking their meals together. Now that they are all working together – Ser Davos and Tyrion to King’s Landing, and Jon Snow and Ser Jorah to Eastwatch – it makes no sense to continue to have Jon Snow and Ser Davos sup in their own rooms. For the first time, Daenerys sees Jon Snow talk about something other than the Night King and the Army of the Dead, about their plans for battle. She sees him joking with Ser Davos and Tyrion, even as there remains an underlying grimness. Daenerys tells herself that she is glad for the chance to get to know her allies better, that it has nothing to do with getting to spend more time in Jon Snow’s company before he leaves. But there is never enough time.

 

“Ser Davos, you used to serve Stannis Baratheon in Dragonstone. Has the place changed much?”

 

“These walls and stones haven’t,” he tells her. “But it used to be much darker. You’ve brought the South with you, your grace.”

 

“Dragonstone is a lot bleaker than the castles in the South,” she admits. “It’s my ancestral home but it still takes some getting used to.”

 

“It’s a lot quieter than it used to be, even though there used to be more women. There are no animals, except for your dragons and the horses.”

 

Daenerys ignores the jibe at women. “What other animals did you keep?”

 

“Dogs and cats. Pigs. Stannis liked dogs.”

 

“Is it different in the rest of Westeros?”

 

“There are more animals, to be sure. Ramsay Bolton kept hounds,” Ser Davos tells her, shrugging. “And the Stark children had direwolves.”

 

Daenerys raises her eyebrows. “Direwolves?” she asks, at the same time Jon Snow snorts, “Children, is it?”

 

“Aye,” Ser Davos says, ignoring Jon. “They were thought to be extinct in Westeros, only found beyond the Wall. But the Starks had them.”

 

Daenerys looks at Jon inquiringly.

 

“We found a litter of pups,” Jon tells her, as Ser Davos starts to converse with the rest of the table. “Their mother was dead, killed by a stag. So we kept the pups, one for each of us siblings.”

 

“Where is yours?”

 

“I left him in Winterfell,” Jon says. He seems somewhat wistful. “He does not take well to the sea.”

 

“What’s his name?”

 

“Ghost.” She wonders if he’s aware that his lips have quirked slightly at the name, that a softness has come into his eyes. At her inquisitive look, he goes on to explain, “He was the runt of the litter, an albino pup. White when all the others were grey. Being the bastard, he’s the one I got.”

 

Perhaps Ghost is not his child, but she sees that the direwolf means to Jon what her dragons mean to her. “Something tells me you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

His eyes meet hers. “No, I wouldn’t.”

 

Despite the innocence of the subject matter of their conversation, she finds that her heart is beating faster, and she reminds herself that this will not do. She wrenches her gaze away from Jon Snow and turns back to the conversation with the rest of the table.

 

Tyrion is speaking to Jorah. “I’ve been meaning to ask. How did you get cured of greyscale?”

 

Ser Davos perks up at this. “Cured? Of greyscale? Is that possible?”

 

“I didn’t think it was before,” Jorah tells them. “I had it cut off me. Literally.”

 

There is a collective wince around the table.

 

He shrugs. “I won’t say it didn’t hurt. It did. But I have my life back.”

 

“And who do I have to thank for this?” Daenerys asks.

 

“An apprentice at the Citadel, Samwell Tarly.”

 

Tyrion glances at Daenerys. “You don’t mean the son of Randyll Tarly?” he asks.

 

“The very one,” Jorah confirms.

 

Shocked as she is by this revelation, she is even more surprised when Jon Snow speaks up. “Samwell and I served in the Night’s Watch together. How is he?”

 

“He seemed fine,” Jorah says. “I don’t think he had permission to perform the operation; it’s a good thing for him – and for me – it turned out well in the end.” He turns to Daenerys, who has lost some of her colour. “Your grace, are you okay?”

 

“Randyll and Dickon Tarly were killed in our attack on the Lannister army,” Tyrion tells them.

 

“They refused to bend the knee, and I had Drogon burn them,” Daenerys clarifies. She doesn’t miss the irony – this man, Samwell Tarly, has returned Jorah to her, and she in turn has taken his family. But she’d done what she’d done, and there is no point regretting her decision or trying to hide it. All who follow her must know who it is they are following and what it is she stands for. Still, she does not care for the troubled look on Jon Snow’s face.

 

The rest of the meal passes in silence.

 

 

~

 

 

As they leave the dining chambers, Daenerys turns to him. “Lord Snow.”

 

She waits for him to catch up. He doesn’t know what to feel, with the news about the Tarlys. He’d known she’d killed her enemies, but he hadn’t known the circumstances in which she’d killed them. He hadn’t known how close to home it hit. It occurs to him how little he truly knows her. He believes he has come to care somewhat for this queen, but he cannot care for her methods. He doesn’t know how to reconcile them with the other things he has come to know of her.

 

“Jon,” she says, as he falls into step with her, while the rest have walked on ahead. He doesn’t miss the fact that this time she is calling him by his given name. She seems to be struggling with something. “Were you and Samwell Tarly close?”

 

He is silent for awhile. He wonders if her question arises from guilt or curiosity or something else. “He’s one of my best friends,” he says finally. “He’s the one who told me about the dragonglass in Dragonstone. He’s a good man.” He pauses, wondering if he should say more. “Sam was never close to his father. But he loved his brother.”

 

“The Tarlys refused to bend the knee.”

 

 _Isn’t that what I’m doing right now?_ he thinks, but does not say. “Would you have your dragons burn all who do not bend the knee?”

 

“They betrayed the Tyrells, whom they were sworn to, for the Lannisters.”

 

He does not know what it is she wants from him, so he tells her what he believes to be true. “They were wrong to do that, but neither would I endorse having them killed. But you have your reasons and it is not for me to judge, your grace.”

 

Daenerys is uncharacteristically muted. He sees her eyes glide along the passing scenery, the sea and sky around Dragonstone, the castle in which her ancestors once reigned. He sees her back straightening, her eyes hardening. Yet when she turns to him there is a note of plaintiveness in her voice. “I have worked towards this my whole life. I don’t – I can’t – regret any of what I’ve done. Don’t you understand?”

 

He’s not sure why she’s telling him this, why she cares that he understands, only that – for some strange reason – she really does. So he looks her in the eyes as he tells her, “I understand. I can’t say I agree with what you’ve done, but I understand.”

 


	6. Heroes (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow and Tyrion have a conversation the night before Jon leaves for Eastwatch. Tyrion watches Jon and Daenerys say farewell. Daenerys complains to Tyrion about heroes.

**Chapter 6 - Heroes (Part I)**

 

The night before Jon leaves for Eastwatch, Tyrion comes looking for him, a bottle of Dornish red in hand. It is a welcome distraction. Even with his journey weighing heavily on him, he finds his mind invariably drifting back to the Queen and the very real possibility that he may never see her again.

 

He dithers between wanting to say a proper goodbye (how? What will he say? He has never been good at such things) and pretending nonchalance (it’s no big deal, really; this is just another excursion beyond the Wall, and they are nothing to each other anyway). Tyrion’s interruption spares him from having to decide, for it will soon be too late to look for the queen without inviting gossip.

 

“I said that at some point I want to know how a man of the Night’s Watch became King in the North,” Tyrion greets him, referencing their conversation when Jon had just arrived at Dragonstone.

 

“And you were supposed to tell me how a Lannister became Hand to Daenerys Targaryen.”

 

“Yes. I thought it best to do it while we’re both still alive.”

 

They talk late into the night. He knows he should be getting some rest for the journey ahead, but there will be time enough to rest once they set sail.

 

Perhaps it’s the wine or the headiness caused by the impending mission or because he does truly like and trust Tyrion, but he tells him nearly everything – about his time beyond the Wall, the betrayal by his brothers, how Melisandre had brought him back to life.

 

Tyrion looks more contemplative than shocked. “Daenerys summoned you here on the Red Priestess’s recommendation,” he tells Jon after a moment. “She mentioned something about a prophecy. Apparently you and Daenerys have a role to play.”

 

The revelation that Melisandre had somehow engineered his meeting with Daenerys makes Jon uneasy. “I don’t trust Melisandre. She’s made prophesies before and look where that got Stannis Baratheon and his family.”

 

Tyrion shrugs. “I don’t know if I believe in prophesies. But I do believe that good and capable rulers can make a difference. Anyhow it’s all moot now. I have a feeling you’d have come seeking Daenerys’ assistance sooner or later anyway.” He pauses. “Do you know, when I saw the dragons, I thought that I’d seen the height of the impossible. And then you come along and now there’s all sorts of other impossible things, apparently true / real.” He pauses. “So what was it like?”

 

“What?”

 

“Being dead.”

 

“I didn’t want to come back.”

 

“That good, huh?”

 

“I don’t remember any of it. But I came back to a world where my sworn brothers had betrayed me and I thought most of my family dead and the rest of the world soon to perish at the hands of the Night King and his army. So, no, I had no wish to return.”

 

“Well, aren’t you a bundle of sunshine?” Tyrion mutters good-naturedly. “Well, it’s good to have you back in the realm of the living.”

 

He looks at Tyrion meaningfully. “Just to be clear, this isn’t something I want known.”

 

“I can see why.” He has a hard enough time convincing people that there’s an Army of the Dead out there. They don’t need to be hearing it from the mouth of a man apparently once dead. “So you left the Night’s Watch on a technicality. How did you become King in the North?”

 

He tells Tyrion about reuniting with Sansa, Rickon’s death and the battle with the Boltons for Winterfell.

 

“What happened to Ramsay Bolton?”

 

“We thought it was only fair that Sansa got to deal with him.” At Tyrion’s questioning look, he adds, “She fed him to his hounds.”

 

“That’s grim. You Northerners and your wolves and hounds. I won’t say he didn’t deserve it though. I must emphasise again that our marriage was unconsummated.”

 

“And I’ll say it again – I didn’t ask. She did say you were kind to her.” He confides in Tyrion about his discomfort with leaving Sansa holding fort with Littlefinger still skulking around Winterfell.

 

“As I said, she’s smarter than she looks, your sister. I don't think you need to worry about her. Besides, she now has two more Starks with her.”

 

Then Tyrion tells him about Shae, and Joffrey’s death, and killing his father. “The thing is, I don’t regret it, not at all. I envy you, really. You had a father you respected, who loved you.”

 

Jon doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He suspects that Tyrion is quite far into the bottle. He has hardly touched it, for his part, but it looks about gone. “How did you become Hand?”

 

So Tyrion tells him about leaving Westeros with the help of Varys, about being captured by Jorah Mormont and meeting Daenerys, whom Varys had told him about. “So you see, as far as first meetings go, yours wasn’t so bad,” Tyrion tells Jon. “At least she didn’t actually threaten to kill you.”

 

Though it hadn’t been his intention when he’d asked Tyrion about his journey to becoming Hand, Jon finds himself glad for the opportunity to form a clearer picture of the Queen, and wanting to know more. “And after everything you’ve seen, do you agree with Varys? Do you think that she will be the one to “ _break the wheel_ ”?”

 

“If there’s anyone out there who can, I think it’s her. I don’t agree with everything she does. I advise her, and she decides whether or not she wants to take it. She’s certainly able. But if your concern is whether or not she’s like the Mad King, well, I think you’ve seen enough to decide yourself. Did you to speak to those she saved, like I suggested?”

 

“I spoke to Missandei of Naath. I’ve spoken to you.” He hopes his voice is casual as he adds, “But how did Mormont’s son come to serve a Targaryen?” He knows that Eddard Stark had ordered a death sentence against Jorah Mormont, who fled from Westeros and entered the slave trade to meet the material demands of a wife who subsequently left him. But none of that explains how he finally came to serve a Targaryen, let alone with such devotion.

 

“He was a spy for Varys. He purported to serve Viserys and Daenerys, but reported back to Varys. Daenerys banished him when she found out. He kidnapped me to try to get back into her good graces. But she sent him away again – that was my first piece of advice to her.”

 

The shock must be evident on Jon’s face, for Tyrion adds, “Of course, he’d stopped being a spy and saved her life countless times before she found out. Like many others, he saw that she was kind and just and would make a good Queen. But you may have noticed that his… admiration for Daenerys goes beyond that.”

 

“I have,” Jon admits.

 

Tyrion regards him appraisingly, and Jon forces himself to meet his eyes. “Jealous, are we?” Tyrion asks, smirking.

 

Jon is annoyed. Tyrion sees far too much and, worse still, comments on it. He does not deign to respond. Perhaps his reasons weren’t entirely noble when he’d informed Daenerys’ small council of his decision to join the mission beyond the Wall. Was it partly because Jorah Mormont had offered and Jon had seen how Daenerys had reacted? He wonders himself.

 

“If it’s any comfort to you, she’s had other lovers – one whom she left behind in Meereen not long ago – but I don’t think Daenerys ever saw Jorah that way.”

 

“I didn’t ask,” Jon mutters. This news brings with it a mixture of relief and a strange twinge, which he identifies uneasily as jealousy. But who is he to be jealous? He and Daenerys are nothing to each other ( _yet_ , his traitorous mind whispers), and he’s loved before as well, even breaking an oath in the process.

 

And look how that had turned out. All the people he loved, he’d failed to save. Rickon. Ygritte. Mormont. He would not add another to the list. Ygritte’s death had torn him apart; he does not want to go through that again. Already he cannot imagine what Daenerys’ death might do to him; he cannot imagine it were they ( _lovers_ , his traitorous brain whispers again)… something more. Not that she needs saving. She has three dragons and armies ready to kill and die with no more than a word from her lips. Still, will it be enough against the Army of the Dead?

 

Suddenly, the gravity of their predicament and the impossibility of their mission – the eventual fight against the White Walkers – strike him with a blow so hard he feels almost winded. He tells Tyrion he thinks he’ll turn in for the night.

 

He feels tired, and old, and entirely ill equipped to lead the North in this fight. This might be their best chance, but it’s not a lot. This is no time to be falling in love, least of all with the one person in the world who may have the power to save it.

 

He is somewhat relieved that he did not approach the Queen after all. Who knows what awkward, sentimental thing he might have said? _Take care of yourself_ , to possibly the most powerful woman in the world? No point making things more complicated than they need to be, not when winter is coming. Not when he needs to be focusing on the fight.

 

Maester Aemon’s words now return to him with clarity. _Love is the death of duty_ , he’d said. _W_ _e all do our duty when there's no cost to it. Honor comes easy then. Yet, sooner or later in every man's life there comes a day when it's not easy. A day when he must choose._

 

Jon had been skeptical then. He’d been sure he would choose duty over love, like he thought his father would. And, with Ygritte, although he had faltered at first, he had eventually chosen duty. Now… well, it would not do to think on such things. The Long Night is coming, and he steels himself to choose duty always.

 

 

~

 

 

The day the men start their journey to Eastwatch dawns bright and warm. The journey will at least be made in good weather, though the rest of the mission may be a treacherous one.

 

The boat is packed and ready, and after breakfast the men slowly make their way down to the shore. Tyrion is still feeling slightly out of sorts from the bottle of wine he had the night before, but that is becoming a regular occurrence.

 

He hands Ser Jorah the gold coin that the slaver who’d bought them for the Meereen fighting pits had given to him. “Bring it back. Our Queen needs you,” he tells Jorah, and he means it. For who else has been there for Daenerys from the start; who else is devoted to her above all?

 

And then Daenerys arrives, and Jorah’s full attention turns to her as it always does. She smiles up at Jorah. “We should be better at saying farewell by now.”

 

Jorah smiles back at the Queen, adoration evident in his face. He takes her hands in his, and Tyrion braces himself to witness the awkwardness of some sort of declaration of love.

 

“Your grace, I—” Jorah begins, but he glances to the side, distracted, and Tyrion sees that Jon Snow and his men have arrived at the shore.

 

Jon Snow appears to be busy putting on his gloves and appears not to have noticed anything, unconcerned with this business of saying farewells. Tyrion has said his farewell to the King in the North the evening before, and now he simply watches the spectacle unfold.

 

Jorah seems to think better of saying what he was going to say to the Queen. Instead, he simply kisses her hand and moves off towards the boat. She is looking at him leave when Jon Snow and his men make their way towards the boat.

 

Tyrion watches with interest. How will Jon Snow, the broody man whose growing attraction to Daenerys has become quite plain over the past few weeks, now say farewell to her when there is a real possibility he may never see her again?

 

Jon Snow is still adjusting his gloves when turns back to face Daenerys, almost as an afterthought. “If I don’t return, at least you won’t have to deal with the King in the North anymore,” he tells Daenerys, at what is possibly his first attempt at humour with her. He is barely able to meet her eyes as he says this.

 

He is trying to keep things light, Tyrion understands. It is easier this way, when no one can say for sure if they will even return.

 

But – and this is what shocks Tyrion, for plenty of men have fallen for Daenerys, but Daenerys herself is not usually so susceptible – Daenerys looks directly at Jon Snow, her heart in her eyes as she smiles a little sad smile. “I’ve grown used to him,” she says.

 

Tyrion recognizes this concession for what it is – she has grown to care for Jon Snow. It is more than a little alarming, given her position as a queen who is engaged in a battle for her throne. There had been hints, over the past weeks, that Daenerys’ regard for Jon Snow was growing. And of course with two young, good-looking persons of the opposite sex, there was bound to be some attraction. Attraction was fine, expected, understood. But Tyrion had somehow missed this, this – dare he think it - _more-than-regard_ that Daenerys seems to feel for Jon Snow.

 

He can almost see the resolve forming in Jon Snow as he struggles to remain impassive. “I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, your Grace,” Jon Snow says finally, and then steps away, taking his position at the head of the boat. Jon Snow, at least, seems to have the right idea. It’s too dangerous, too unpredictable to let feelings come into being at this point in the game.

 

“Heave!” he shouts, and the men push the boat swiftly into the water.

 

Daenerys’ eyes follow his back. Ser Jorah turns back to give her one last lingering look, but Daenerys does not see him. She only has eyes for Jon Snow, but he does not look back.

 

 

~

 

 

After the boat has left, Daenerys is fine for a week or so. She counts the time – they would have reached Eastwatch by now. They would have gathered the wildlings by now. They would have crossed the Wall by now. And then she starts to have a mild panic attack. The foolishness of the venture seems more evident than ever before. To venture into the blistering cold, into enemy territory, with nothing more than a couple of long swords and wildlings. Their goodbyes might as well have been for the rest of eternity.

 

She’d wanted to go to him the night before they’d left for Eastwatch, and… what? Entreat him to stay? Command him not to die out there? Throw herself at him? Ask him all the things she’d been wanting to ask him about – his history, his family, taking a knife in his heart for his people, what it was that put that look in his eyes?

 

Instead, all she’d said was a quiet “ _Rest well, Lord Snow, you’ll need it for your journey tomorrow,_ ” as they’d all stood to leave the dining hall.

 

She’d half hoped that he’d come to her, but she knew instinctively that he would not. She doesn’t think Jon Snow is a man to do such things. And indeed he hadn’t gone to her, and his farewell the next day had been almost devoid of emotion.

 

As the days pass without any word, fear grips her, and an overwhelming sense of helplessness. Why had she let them go? Why had they gone? Was there really no other way to get Cersei to agree to a ceasefire? And then her fear turns into annoyance – an annoyance at how little these men seem to value their lives, for they follow danger wherever it goes. Stupid men – boys, more like it – just wanting to show off their bravery. Do they never think to consider the consequences? Do they not realize that others suffer for their recklessness?

 

She does not mean to rant to Tyrion, but he is a convenient listener and the words come tumbling out, her anger her only protection against the helplessness she feels. “Do you know what I like about you?”

 

“I honestly don’t.”

 

“You’re not a hero,” she tells him bluntly.

 

“Oh.” Tyrion seems somewhat hurt. “I’ve been heroic on occasion. I once charged in the Mud Gate of King’s Landing.”

 

“I don’t want you to be a hero,” she says testily. “Heroes do stupid things and they die. Drogo, Jorah, Daario, even this…” she swallows. “… Jon Snow. They all try to outdo each other. Who can do the stupidest, bravest thing.”

 

“It’s interesting, all these heroes you name - Drogo, Jorah, Daario, even this… Jon Snow.” She does not miss the way Tyrion is appraising her carefully. “They all fell in love with you.”

 

“Jon Snow’s not in love with me,” she dismisses the notion immediately. He can’t be. He couldn’t seem to get away quickly enough when he’d left for Eastwatch.

 

She’s not blind; she knows he is attracted to her, but then so are many men. It means nothing. There have been times she’d thought that he may have felt something more, but she must have been mistaken. Their encounters have been entirely platonic. He is maddeningly inscrutable, formal to a fault. Not a single tender word has passed their lips, though if a romance could be conducted entirely through heated stares and the whispers of one’s heart, well, then perhaps there could be something there. Still, even if she’d felt… something, it didn't seem like he had. Really, she has given more thought to this matter than she should.

 

So has Tyrion, apparently. “Oh, my mistake. I suppose he stares longingly at you because he’s hopeful for a successful military alliance,” he says sarcastically.

 

She feels a strange thrill at his words, but she quashes it immediately. “He’s too little for me.” Even as she says the words, she knows that they are an excuse. That she is trying to convince herself more so than Tyrion. She expects Tyrion to challenge her on this, but then she sees that she has inadvertently offended him. “I didn’t mean…”

 

“As heroes go, he is quite little,” Tyrion agrees, and even though Daenerys was the one who had said it, she can’t help but feel defensive on behalf of Jon Snow now. He is a bastard, but all that she’s seen of him shows that he is far from little. What he lacks in birth and ambition, he more than makes up for in ability and character.

 

And if Jon Snow is little, who then is not? How many Lords are left? House Tyrell and Dorne are no more. Jamie Lannister, the man who’d killed her father and loves Cersei Lannister? Ser Jorah? A dothraki? One of the Greyjoys? Jon Snow’s brother, an invalid who is now some sort of seer? Who does she mean to marry, then? And then she realizes that she’s been assessing Jon Snow as a potential husband.

 

She abruptly halts _that_ train of thought, and tucks it neatly away in the recesses of her mind.

 


	7. Chapter 7: Heroes (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission beyond the Wall goes awry, and Daenerys comes to save them. 
> 
> (Season 7, Episode 6)

** Chapter 7: Heroes (Part II)  **

 

When the raven arrives from Eastwatch, it confirms her fears, but it also brings relief. Relief that the men have made it this far. That they are not dead yet, or at least they weren’t when they’d sent it. Relief that she finally gets to do something, instead of sitting around protected in her castle while good men die.

 

There is no question that she is going, although her Hand is against it. His entreaty that they knew the risk when they left only strengthens her resolve – she cannot languish here in Dragonstone, not when the dragons may mean life or death for these men.

 

He tries to persuade her against it. “You can’t win the throne if you’re dead. You can’t break the wheel if you’re dead.”

 

His words register as making sense, but how can she sit here languishing when a desperate plea for help has come? How can she possibly rule the Seven Kingdoms if she is not willing to take some risks? “So what would you have me do?”

 

“Nothing,” Tyrion tells her. “Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to do. If you die, we’re all lost.”

 

“You told me to do nothing before and I listened to you,” she says, somewhat bitterly. Her mind is made up. “I’m not doing that again.”

 

For a moment, she wonders if Drogon will be enough. But then she considers that the lives of these men – the King in the North, she allows herself to breathlessly consider – may hang in the balance, and she makes her decision.

 

“Come, my children,” she says to her three dragons, and off they go towards the North, a strange and foreign land. She never imagines that this would be the last time she says this to one of them.

 

 

~

 

 

As the battle progresses, he can see that they are going nowhere. “Fall back!” He yells. But there are too many of them, coming one after the other. “Fall back! Fall back!”

 

As they are reduced to fighting nearly back to back, Tormund’s words replay in his mind. _Mance Rayder was a great man, a proud man,_ Tormund had said. _How many of his people died for his pride?_

 

Jon understands now. He looks at the men around him. They are growing fatigued. They have not slept well, they are weakened by the cold, and they have been fighting for some time what is clearly a losing battle. It is not a battle, really. They are fighting for their lives, temporarily staving off what seems inevitable.

 

He has led men to their deaths again. All for his pride. Had he truly wanted to bring a wight to Cersei? Or was he trying to prove something to Daenerys Targaryen? If he had bent the knee as she’d asked, would they still have come beyond the Wall? The plan had been to kidnap a straggler and leave. They’d had no plan B, no backup should things have gone awry, as they have done now. _I’m the only one who’s fought them_ , he’d told Daenerys’ small council. _I’m the only one here who knows them._ He was the only one who could have warned them how enormously ill-equipped they would have been, not quite a dozen men against an army of thousands who could not easily be killed. Could it have been anything but a foolish, dangerous plan?

 

They are grossly outnumbered. Even if they manage to kill the wights now clambering onto the rock, there will be more and more to replace them. He is not one to lose hope easily but he’s not naïve either. He has survived and even won battles by the skin of his teeth before, but he is more aware than anyone that those happened by sheer dumb luck. The only reason they have managed to stay alive for so long is because the ice could not take the weight of the army of wights. And that borrowed time has run out.

 

Their only hope is Daenerys. But even that would be a stretch of luck – who knows if Gendry even made it back to Eastwatch? Who knows if the raven reached her in time? Who knows if she will come? She has no obligation to save them. She has no reason to save them, except perhaps to save Ser Jorah. As he’d told her, _If I don’t return, at least you won’t have to deal with the King in the North anymore._ And perhaps she won’t. He wonders briefly how she’ll react.

 

And then he hears it - the screech of what he has come to recognize as a dragon, and he instinctively ducks as a blast of fire issues overhead.

 

 

~

 

 

Across the Wall, the cold is biting. She can feel it seep through the gaps in her clothing, numbing her skin. The air is foggy with mist, and she can barely see ten feet ahead of her. It feels like a land beyond the reaches of time. But her dragons seem to know where to go, and she lets them lead her until she can hear the sounds of battle shattering the bleak quiet.

 

At last she sees it – a tightening circle of men, standing atop a jut of rock, fending off what looks to be thousands of… she doesn’t know what. Wights, Jon Snow had called them. It is an army, the Army of the Dead, surrounding a small group of men. How little they look; how vastly outnumbered. She doesn’t hesitate.

 

“Dracarys!” she commands, and the breaths of her children instantly incinerate a patch of wights. A few more breaths of fire as they circle the battleground, and the first ring of wights surrounding the men is felled. She finally allows herself to breathe a little, and to look down at the men who remain standing.

 

_There he is._ Her eyes are drawn naturally to him. He is looking up at her and Drogon with a mixture of awe and wonder. In the midst of the raging battlefield, their eyes meet. Her heart soars. _He is still alive._

 

Drogon lands as near to the men as he can, and they start forward. She reaches for Jon Snow, and he is reaching up to her as well, but then he notices a wight running towards them, and he turns to fight it so that the other men can scramble onto Drogon’s back.

 

As she watches him cut down wight after wight, she realizes just why the Northerners have made him King. He is a true warrior, skilled and brave. He is not a King to sit idle in his fortress while others die for him. And whatever she might have said about heroes trying to outdo each other, she feels a deep respect for him, even as a part of her wishes he weren’t so brave, weren’t so self-sacrificial, weren’t so… the man she has come to think of as Jon Snow.

 

Soon the rest of the men are safely on Drogon’s back. They would be ready to leave, but for Jon. Jorah calls for Jon, but there are too many wights, and Jon is fighting them off on his own. Drogon cannot help, not when Jon is in his line of fire. Daenerys watches, feeling increasingly concerned. Perhaps if he runs fast enough and puts enough space between himself and the wights--

 

And then she hears it. Or perhaps she feels it, knows it in her bones before she hears the heart-wrenching shriek that pierces the cold air, before she turns and sees Viserion flailing in the sky, a spear lodged in his neck, his body on fire.

 

His brothers scream, and Rhaegal rushes to help him, but it is too late. Viserion falls from the sky, crashing heavily through the ice and into the water, his head landing on the ice. And then, so quickly there is no time to do anything, his eyes slide shut and the rest of him slips underwater.

 

She knows, as only a mother can know, that there is no trying to pull him out, to save him or revive him. Viserion is dead.

 

There is a stunned silence – the world holds its breath when a dragon falls, comes to a standstill when a dragon dies – but there is a ringing in her ears, a vast emptiness in her. All her breath has left her. His brothers are screaming, their wails another dagger to her heart. She feels their anguish. Her child is gone. Viserion, her beautiful child… gone so quickly.

 

She is shaken out of her trance by a shout behind her. She turns to see Jon Snow running towards them, cutting down several wights in his way. “Go!” he shouts. “Go, now! Leave!”

 

And then she sees that at the edge of the battle there is a group of humanoid creatures, one of whom is holding spear. _This must be the Night King,_ she realizes. _It was he who drove the spear through Viserion._ Her heart hardens. But there is no time for anger now. Her fear for the lives of her other children and men eclipses her anger. They need to go now, or they may not be able to leave.

 

But she is rooted to the spot, waiting for Jon. He cuts through a few more wights, runs swiftly towards Drogon. He is _so close._ And then a few wights leap on him at the same time and they crash through the ice into the freezing depths below.

 

Daenerys feels as if she has also been doused in the icy water that has taken first Viserion and now Jon Snow. A few ripples along the surface of the water, and then nothing. Seconds tick by, but he does not emerge. _Please, please…_

 

But then she sees the Night King lift the spear, point it at Drogon. _No. Not another one of my children._ They must go. They cannot wait any longer. She tugs on Drogon, who struggles with the weight of the men astride his back but finally manages to lift them all off the ground. The spear sails swiftly through the air, misses by a hair.

 

When they are at a safe distance away, Daenerys looks back, but all she sees is an icy wasteland. No sign of Jon Snow.

 

 

~

 

 

The journey back to Eastwatch passes in a daze. She knows she ought to feel relieved when they are finally safely away from the White Walkers, but her heart is breaking for Viserion and Jon Snow. Viserion is dead, and she has abandoned Jon Snow to die alone beyond the Wall, surrounded by the Army of the Dead, the army he’d tried to warn her about, to her disbelief. She can barely stand the thought.

 

Back at Eastwatch, the men are quiet, respectful. _Thank you,_ they all say, and _I’m sorry_. They are grieving too, for their lost King and friend. And they are truly sorry for her loss of Viserion. But she can’t help but feel that none of them quite understand. Her dragons are not just creatures or powerful weapons. They are not _pets_. They are her children. Viserion was her child. She is their mother; she should be the one protecting them, and not the other way around, not leading them into danger and watching helplessly while they die.

 

Tyrion had warned her, told her not to go. But she had not listened, and has lost a child in the process. She is glad for the men she has managed to save, for the fact that she has now seen the truth, for the wight they have brought back to show the rest of the world – but she now knows, from the sickened feeling she has – this is not what she went for. This is not _who_ she went for.

 

Now that there is a good chance he is to be taken away forever, she can be honest with herself about why she had gone. It wasn’t to bring back a wight for Cersei, a group of good men. It was to bring back Jon Snow. She has lost her child, and had failed to bring back the one thing – the one man – she wanted.

 

Davos is visibly devastated, but he tells her that Jon is a fighter, that he has survived worse. She wants badly to believe him, but she sees that he is really trying to convince himself.

 

The odds are that Jon Snow is dead. Even if he hadn’t drowned in the icy waters and managed to somehow climb out, he’d be killed by the army of wights assembled above ground. Even if he somehow managed to escape the wights, he would freeze to death before making it back, soaked to the skin under his thick furs. It is almost a foregone conclusion. And yet she hopes, and waits, eschewing the warmth and comforts of the indoors for the watchtower at Eastwatch, the best vantage point for seeing all coming and going from beyond the Wall.

 

“It’s time to go, your grace.” Jorah reminds her gently.

 

“A bit longer,” she insists. The ship would have to leave soon, she knows, and it is not becoming for a queen to so clearly show herself to be affected by this. She knows that there are bigger problems ahead, and that they will have to act fast. But she cannot bring herself to leave without Jon Snow again.

 

She casts her eyes across the grounds, hoping to see some sign of life, but there is nothing. Her shoulders fall. They cannot wait indefinitely. He is lost to her forever.

 

Just as she turns back towards the tower, a horn sounds. The hope that had not quite been extinguished in her bursts to life. Her eyes cast around eagerly, her heart beating wildly in her ribcage. At last she sees it – in the distance, a dark shape moving across the snow-covered ground. As it comes closer, she identifies it as a horse, with a figure half-slumped over it. She runs, ignoring the look that she knows Ser Jorah is casting at her back.

 

She reaches ground level in time to see the men carefully haul the figure off the horse. When they inform her that it is Jon Snow, she nearly collapses from relief. She can barely speak. But she reminds herself that he is not out of danger yet, and commands them to do whatever they can to make sure he lives.

 

The docked ship is the most convenient place to carry him to, and it is stocked with medical supplies, so that’s where they bring him. They heave him onto a bed and start ripping off his furs.

 

She shouldn’t be here. As queen, she has no business being here, no reason to want to be here. But she is. And perhaps because they are too busy tending to Jon Snow, or don’t want to make this any more awkward than it has to be for her, they don’t say a word about her being here.

 

She can’t help but stare as his bare chest is exposed to her for the first time. Her eyes trace his pale musculature. He would seem carved from marble if not for the shallow rise and fall of his chest, which is marked by long raised scars that can only have been made by deep, deliberate stabs. Stabs that would have reached his heart, that ought to have killed him. The emotion this thought induces in her is overwhelming.

 

These are not fresh scars, she realizes, and she recalls what Ser Davos had said about Jon Snow taking a knife in the heart for his people. A frisson of horror rises up in her at the thought of what must have taken place.

 

She realizes then just how little she knows about the King in the North. Even when she’d asked, he had not wanted to tell her, perhaps embarrassed at the lengths to which he is willing to go for his people. But now that she’s seen it for herself, she’s determined to get to know him better. Every time she thinks she finds out some new nugget of truth about him – skilled, brave warrior; self-sacrificial King – this man somehow manages to surprise her anew, and she finds herself drawn just that bit more to him.


	8. Dany and Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the battle beyond the Wall, Daenerys waits by Jon's bedside for him to awaken, and he finally does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter has taken some time; I've been travelling and didn't have much time to write then. This chapter is slightly long relative to the scene it covers (which is a relatively short one), but my purpose in writing this fic is really to try to understand and flesh out the thoughts of the characters as they appear in the show, and so I've tried to be pretty detailed in that regard. I hope you all enjoy reading this chapter!

** Chapter 8: Dany and Jon  **

 

She spends much of their journey back to Dragonstone staring out at the sea and her dragons flying above head, or otherwise in the small room that Jon Snow occupies.

 

The men more accustomed to seeing people freeze to death have told her that it is a matter of waiting, that he is now literally thawing, letting the fragile pump of his heart and the warmth of his circulating blood slowly melt the ice in his veins. They’ve told her it seems likely he will pull through. She is reassured, but wants to be there when he reawakes. Jorah tries to speak to her a few times, but she is distracted and listless.

 

She feels quite alone – Missandei and Tyrion far away in Dragonstone, Jorah a good and loyal man but not a person whom she thinks will understand. He feels sad for her loss more because _she_ feels sad, rather than because of any sentiment he may personally have for Viserion. Jon Snow has touched Drogon; he seems to understand just how truly special her dragons are. Her loneliness aside, she’s somewhat glad that Missandei and Tyrion are not there; she’s not in a state to be strategizing and planning anyway, and she doesn’t want them to see her like this.

 

There seems no good reason she can give for wanting to wait by Jon Snow’s bedside, so she lets the men think what they will. After the first hard stare from her, no one tries to persuade her otherwise. They bring a chair to the room. They must think their queen weakening.

 

She waits for what feels like weeks, though it must have been only a few days. She has plenty of time to think, but the thoughts are unwelcome, painful, unpleasant. Three stand out the most.

 

First is the realization that if she wants to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, she must first win the war against the dead. Otherwise, as Jon Snow had warned, she will be ruling over a graveyard.

 

It will not be an easy war to win, even with her armies and her dragons. That she knows now. She’s seen the dead, seen their numbers, seen what they can do. She had not believed that her dragons could be killed so easily. The Red Army had tried, with a machine as large as a canon, presumably built to kill dragons, and Drogon had brushed it off like a mere scratch. But a spear, hand thrown by the Night King, had killed Viserion almost instantly.

 

She should have listened to Jon Snow when he'd warned her how dangerous the Night King and his army was. Now the image of her child on fire is burned onto the back of her eyelids. She will avenge his death. She will make sure he did not die for nothing. She will destroy the Night King and his army, and make sure the world lives.

 

The fight for the Seven Kingdoms, which had preoccupied her for so much of her life, feels almost secondary now. That will come later. Everything will come later, when the Night King has been defeated. She does not allow herself to contemplate the alternative possibility. Even if Cersei refuses to stand down, she, Daenerys, will need to defeat the Night King first. She and Cersei can battle it out thereafter.

 

She recalls her first meeting with Jon Snow, how she’d taken offence at him calling them all children, how he’d rued the fact that they were squabbling amongst each other when there was a common enemy to defeat, getting stronger each day. He was right, of course. It seemed he nearly always was.

 

Which brings her to the second realization – how important Jon Snow has become to her. How dear. Her actions over the past few days are clearer warning signs than any arch look Missandei may cast her way or any astute observations from her Hand – impulsively flying beyond the Wall to save Jon Snow and their men. Delaying the journey from Eastwatch in case of Jon Snow’s unlikely return. And now keeping vigil by his bedside like some lovelorn maid.

 

Somehow she has fallen fast, and fallen hard for the King in the North. It is the last thing she’d ever expected. To charm, perhaps even seduce or bed him in her quest for the throne, perhaps. To imprison him or make an ally or subject of him, more likely.

 

But the idea of actually falling for him had been unthinkable. As queen she cannot afford such weakness, especially not now that she is reclaiming the Seven Kingdoms. She’d felt nothing when she’d left Daario behind to advance her claim. But she cannot imagine the thought of continuing in her quest to rule the Seven Kingdoms as if she’d never met Jon Snow. He has changed everything.

 

He’d challenged her authority at every turn. He gave her advice she did not want to hear. He’d come refusing to bend the knee but wanting her help. He’d sought her help beyond the Wall and her assistance had resulted in Viserion’s death. And yet, for all that, how quickly he has found his way into her heart. She’d started by threatening him with imprisonment and now here she is, waiting by his bedside willing him to _please wake up_ because she cannot do this – life, and all it entails – alone.

 

She has tried fighting it. _He’s too little,_ she’s told herself. _He’s got nothing to offer._ The truth is she is already in too deep that none of this matters to her, even if it were true.

 

The enormity of her first and second realizations brings her to her third realization, which is that the first two are at odds with each other. They do not sit well together – history has proven it time and again. Love is a weakness.

 

She has already exchanged a child for a man, Viserion for Jon Snow. She knows now how vulnerable her feelings for Jon Snow make her. Going North for him and then waiting for him was what had resulted in Viserion’s death. But she had not learnt from that lesson, and still she had waited for him to come back from beyond the Wall. How much more will she do for this man, how many more sacrifices will she make? Has she learned nothing?

 

Her people deserve better. She tells herself that when this is over – when he wakes and she is reassured that he will live – she will reign in her emotions. Nothing will come of this.

 

For now, though, she sits by his bedside, thinking, her eyes idly tracing the contours of his face, committing them to memory. The scar running across his right eye. The beard that continues to grow while he sleeps. The strong line of his jaw, normally tense but softened now. The shape of his mouth.

 

On an impulse, she cups her palm around his cheek, her fingers grazing the pulse point of his neck. It is the first time they are touching, skin to skin, and even though his face is cold and she is the Unburnt, she thinks this is perhaps what it feels like to be burned by fire. It is reassuring to feel the beat of his pulse under her fingers. She lets herself have this one indulgence.

 

The next day he awakes. It is mid-afternoon, and her immense sense of relief at seeing his eyes struggle to open overwhelms any embarrassment she may otherwise feel about being caught waiting for him to awake.

 

But he looks at her seriously, and the first words out of his mouth are “I’m sorry.” She doesn’t know what to make of that, the fact that his first words after regaining consciousness after a harrowing battle for his life are an apology and condolences for her loss, but he says it again. “I'm so sorry.”

 

She’s not sure how to respond. Her relief at his recovery seems to have unclogged a rush of emotions, sending them gushing through her, making her feel tenfold what she’d felt before. Her sorrow at losing Viserion. Her confusing regarding her feelings for Jon. Her fear for the world as she knows it. She cannot find the words to say what she means, so she only shakes her head, looks down at her lap.

 

He takes her hand then. Startled, she can’t help but glance at him again. His eyes are pained, sincere. “I wish I could take it back. I wish we’d never gone.”

 

Though his fingers are cold, and she is blood of the dragon, she feels warmth spread through her like a flame from where their hands are joined. She’s not sure what prompted him to take her hand, but she is surprised at his boldness. Perhaps he means to comfort her. Perhaps it is guilt. Perhaps it’s his way of showing how grateful he is to her for going to save them. Whatever it is, it’s not right that this simple gesture should inspire in her a longing so deep and so raw that she feels she would give anything for this man. She hastily removes her hand from his.

 

“I don’t,” she tells him truthfully. The question has crossed her mind the past few days – with the benefit of hindsight, would she have gone? If she hadn’t gone, Viserion would still be alive. If she had not, Jon Snow, Jorah, Beric Dondarion and the other men would most likely not. For all the emotions that she has experienced over the past few days, regret has not been one of them – at least, not regret at having gone to save them. Regret, perhaps, that she had not been better prepared, that she had not been more watchful, but—she cannot let herself entertain such thoughts. _If I look back, I am lost._ “If we hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have seen. You have to see to know. Now I know.” She pauses.

 

“The dragons are my children. They’re the only children I’ll ever have. Do you understand?” She wants him to understand what a significant undertaking this is for her. The dragons may be powerful weapons, instrumental in the fight against the Army of the Dead, but they are first and foremost her children. She will not lose another one. She will not be so careless again.

 

At the same time, she hopes he is able to read between the lines and understand it for the warning it is – that whatever this thing between them is cannot happen. The concern Tyrion had expressed about her inheritance has weighed more heavily on her mind than her reaction to it might suggest. She is well aware that it is a problem; she doesn’t need reminding. Apart from the obvious issues it presents in terms of the future of the Seven Kingdoms, it means that she will not be able to bear an heir for whomever she marries. A man like Jon Snow needs an heir, deserves an heir. The world needs more Jon Snows. And whatever else she may be able to do, this she cannot.

 

He nods, but she’s not sure he quite understands. Perhaps this conversation is better left for another day, when he is in a better state of mind. For now, all she can do is assure him that despite what she’s said about the dragons being her children, she will join in the fight against the Night King. He will not have to bear this burden alone. “We’re going to destroy the Night King and his army,” she tells him resolutely. “We will do it together. You have my word.”

He swallows. “Thank you, Dany.”

 

His use of the name Dany sends an imperceptible tremor through her. It’s nice to be called something other than Your Grace, particularly by the person she has come to think of more as a man than as an ally. But she likes it almost too much. It sounds like a term of endearment, falling from Jon Snow’s lips. She can imagine him calling her Dany, his voice a rasp in her ear as his arms wind around her, pulling her closer, and onto his lap…

 

She wrenches her gaze from his and laughs, hoping she sounds more lighthearted than flustered. “Dany? Who was the last person to call me that? I’m not sure… Was it my brother? Mmm, not the kind of company you want to keep,” she says, her gaze flitting about the room, trying to find something to land on so she does not have to look at those eyes, so dark and serious, gazing at her full of promise as to what they might be together.

 

But he remains serious, unperturbed. “All right,” he says slowly, his eyes still on her with a look that could melt butter at thirty paces. “Not Dany. How about – my Queen? I’d, ah, bend the knee, but…”

 

She feels her breath leave her at these words – not because it means she has won the North but because she recognizes that she has somehow finally earned the trust and respect of Jon Snow, a man she has come to want the trust and respect of. She does not miss the irony – after his refusal to bend the knee despite her pressing him to do so as a condition to her helping destroy the Night King, she’s now agreed to help without imposing any conditions, and he’d bent the knee of his own volition. This is unsolicited, something he is offering without being asked. “What about those who pledged allegiance to you?” she says, her voice nearly a whisper.

“They will come to see you for what you are,” Jon tells her, and she feels her throat close up at these words, at the look in his eyes as he says them. She cannot say how much this means to her, coming from him.

 

Tyrion and Missandei had teased her about Jon Snow’s ostensible attraction to her, but she had dismissed the notion. Her beauty was wont to draw the lust and admiration of men, and Jon Snow had not been immune, but there had been nothing more. Though her regard for him grew each day, he had remained formal, distant. But now his yearning is clear as day. These are not the eyes of a man looking at a queen, but that of a man looking at a woman. How can she not have seen it before? She knows with a quiet certainty that he loves her, and that it has nothing to do with her being queen.

 

This time it is she who takes his hand, unthinkingly. She cannot help the tears that fill her eyes, and it occurs to her that this is the first time she is letting anyone see her so vulnerable. With the others she’d had to remain strong, to be a queen, powerful and fearless; with Jon she feels like she can be simply Daenerys. Perhaps that is the problem – that she should revert so easily from queen to girl before this man. “I hope I deserve it.”

 

“You do,” he tells her firmly.

 

She is almost frightened by the intensity of his gaze, the depth of her feeling for this man before her. Though her heart soars at what his eyes are telling her, plain as day, fear and apprehension war with joy. What is this game that they are playing? What do they hope to get from it? Can there be anything more dangerous and ill-conceived?

 

His gaze moves down to their joined hands and he tightens his grip. Her thumb brushes his knuckle. It feels entirely too lovely. They cannot, not when everything is uncertain. Not when, as a queen, her heart is not her own. As she’d told Daario, any marriage she makes would be an alliance, to strengthen her position. They’d all assumed he was in love with her, as many had been before. They did not know that she had fallen too. She has never lain with this man, barely even knows him, and yet she has flown North with her dragons for him.

 

She is not usually one to break eye contact, but nervousness has her looking anywhere but at him. She tries to pull her hand away, but his grip on her tightens. Her eyes flick to his. She sees in his unwavering gaze, in that slight squeeze of his grip, everything he means but does not say.

 

It is too much. She pulls her hand away reluctantly, trying not to notice that his face has fallen, that the light has gone out of his eyes somewhat. “You should get some rest,” she finally tells him.

 

He nods and closes his eyes, though they both know that he does not really want to get some rest, that he will open them again as soon as she steps out of the room.

 

She quickly leaves before she does anything rash. If they’re not careful, they will start something they regret. And everyone in the Seven Kingdoms and beyond – not just the two of them – will end up suffering the consequences.

 

 

~

 

When Daenerys leaves the room, his eyes fall open and he gives up all pretense of trying to get some rest.

 

What could he have been thinking, refusing to let go of her hand like that? He winces at the memory of her firmly removing her hand from his after his feelings had been made plain. It had felt so… natural, her hand in his. Her hand had been soft, and warm, and the gentle graze of her thumb had lit a fire within him that warmed him better than any of the thick blankets piled on him. But then she had pulled her hand away – twice – and had refused to meet his eyes as she’d done so… But he was being greedy. It’d been nice while it had lasted, and more than he could hope for.

 

And what could have prompted him to call her Dany? Perhaps his mind is still addled, the endearment slipping from his lips before he’d realized that he’d only ever called her that in his head before. She’d set him straight on that right away. Not Dany, then.

 

Rejection is a bitch.

 

And yet it doesn’t quite feel like rejection. He hasn’t had much experience with women, but he’s fairly certain that Daenerys is not indifferent towards him. Being a fairly humble man, he is not prone to thinking that women are in love with him. And here is not just any woman, but a woman who is strong and beautiful and good, and a powerful queen to boot. For all that, he believes that Daenerys does feel something for him.

 

The catch in her breath as she’d pointed out that she hadn’t given him permission to leave. The expression in her eyes as they’d parted at Dragonstone, as she’d uttered the words that had reverberated in his mind in the days since – _I’ve grown used to him_. The way her eyes had sought his and her hands had reached for his on the battlefield beyond the Wall. The way her thumb had brushed circles round the top of his hand as she’d grasped it at his bedside. He thinks—hopes— _knows_ —that she feels this… _whatever it is_ between them too.

 

And yet she’d hesitated. She’d had let him down gently, but she had basically told him no.

 

He understands her hesitation. There are other things to worry about – case in point being the Night King and his army and the battle they have just had.

 

His journey back to Eastwatch from beyond the Wall had been hell. He’d been cold to the point of numbness. Exhausted to the point of passing out. Sore all over from the fight. His lungs had protested with every breath he drew. He’d been unable to even sit upright, and had ended up simply slumped over Uncle Benjen’s horse.

 

For all that, the physical hell he had endured was nothing compared to the emotional one. Viserion was dead. Uncle Benjen was almost certainly dead. He had not thought that by asking for Daenerys’ help he’d be putting her life in danger, let alone that of her dragons. He’d thought the dragons practically indestructible, but the Night King had disposed of one so easily. And now she’d lost her dragon, her child, for a miserable bunch of men and a wight. He was the only one who’d fought the Night King and the Army of the Dead; he should have known the danger. He should have known better.

 

Although the guilt was significant, alongside it was admiration as well as the lingering wonderment that she had come, after all. The moment he’d seen her flying in with her dragons, he’d understood that this was a queen who deserved every bit of fealty she demanded. A queen not only in name, in birth, but in deed. He shouldn’t have been surprised. Hadn’t her actions in Blackwater Rush proven that she was not content to simply sit back while her people fought for her?

 

He knew how much her dragons meant to her. And yet, after the devastating loss of her dragon, instead of blaming him or wallowing in self-pity or refusing her assistance, she’d given her word that she would join him in the fight to defeat the Night King and his army.

 

It was that last act of courage and generosity that had prompted him to bend the knee. There had been no need to, not after she’d already promised her help. But it had to be said. All the names and titles bestowed upon her meant something; the loyalty of her armies and people had been hard earned and well deserved. He’d recognized that.

 

And yet he knows that his feelings for her run deeper than that. It’s not the guilt speaking, nor simply admiration and respect for a good ruler. What he feels for Daenerys is stronger than anything he has ever felt for anyone, and he is done fighting it.

 

He had told Davos, and had had to remind himself several times, that there was no time for this. No time for the frivolity of romance, no time to indulge in flirtations and attraction and courtship. But love? Love is a different matter altogether.

 

Ygritte’s words to him now come to mind – _if we die, we die. All men must die,_ _Jon Snow_. _But first,_ _we_ ' _ll live_.

 

And they had lived, at first. And then she had died. _Ygritte._ How he had loved her. How he had mourned her when she’d died. Perhaps a part of him will always love her. And yet his memory of her and of their time together grows fainter each day. He had thought that, for himself, love had been out of the picture forever, but it had come creeping back in when he’d least expected it.

 

He’d been chased to the brink of death – again – and somewhere along the line something had changed. Something in him had rebelled against the future he had foreseen for himself. He’s not sure what, exactly, has caused the change. All he knows is that before, he’d been brave because he had nothing to lose. His single-minded goal had been to defeat the Night King and his army. Now… now he finally has something worth fighting for.

 


End file.
